Enjoy the Silence
by leuska
Summary: "The call comes at nine in the evening. They've had nothing, literally nothing, not a single, solitary lead, and then suddenly, everything moves so fast, it makes her head spin." Spoilers for the - gasp - 6x23 finale. Enjoy. Chapter 13.
1. Chapter 1

___**Enjoy the Silence**_

* * *

_A/N: I won't make this long._

_It's something new. From me. A multi-chapter. A season 6 finale fic. An idea that finally gripped me enough to make me start writing actively again. An idea I'd like to explore, inspired by the constellation of plot factors at the end of season 6. There are a lot of finale fics out there, some breathtakingly wonderful. I'm just another passenger on this large ship, adding to the lot._

_As always, any type of feedback is welcome, although I do respond better to criticism if it's constructive. In case you'd like to know more, I also may be found on tumblr under the same name. _

_Thank you, Meg, for your wonderful input. I am sorry for posting already, but I couldn't help myself. ;)_

* * *

**PART I**

"_The past screams louder than the future. The future is mute, but it's not deaf."__  
__―__Jarod Kintz__,__Seriously delirious, but not at all serious_

* * *

Chapter 1

The call comes at nine in the evening. They've had nothing, literally _nothing,_ not a single, solitary lead, and then suddenly, everything moves so fast, it makes her head spin.

* * *

It's a quick tip-off: a short, anonymous call to the local police station and a surprisingly adept chief who, for once, doesn't think he can (or doesn't want to) handle such a potentially big case on his own. Not as big as this. He makes the call to assemble his squad; better to be safe than sorry, even if he has to wait on them for a little while. He hopes beyond hope that the call was genuine. If all goes well, he could be a hero tomorrow, or who knows, maybe even get a promotion. If the call was just a prank…well, then he's fucked. But the caller did sound genuine, did seem to know a lot of details about the case. On the other hand, there had been quite a lot written about it in the papers.

The rest happens quickly. Everything is as they were told on the phone: the farmhouse contains a man and a woman, suspiciously similar in appearance to the persons pictured in the papers recently. His team makes quick work of the job, entering the house and apprehending the suspects with a minimum of resistance.

Of course, it all ends up being a little bit more complicated than that. The FBI shows up soon after to confiscate all files related to the case, but the chief isn't really interested in that anyway. What's truly at the heart of the matter here is the prisoner the couple was holding in the cellar. A single man, in bad shape, but alive.

Richard Castle, quite possibly.

As in, Richard Castle, the novelist from New York, allegedly kidnapped en route to his own wedding several months ago. What a headline this would make the next day when the local newspaper caught up to the story in the morning.

So yes, the chief is fairly proud of his accomplishment, pleased with the role he played in saving the famous murder-mystery writer from his imprisonment by two obviously deranged people. The case is quickly taken from his hands, but it's just as well. Let the FBI take it all back to New York, where it came from. As for him, he's satisfied; no officers were injured in the arrest, both the FBI and the mayor congratulated him, and his yearly review is closing in. The favorable publicity surrounding the case could only help him. Oh yes, what a successful night.

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, a phone rings and a woman picks up, scraping her long hair away from tired eyes.

"Beckett," she answers in a weary voice.

There's a man on the line, an official from the FBI. And this time…this time he truly says it. Just like that. Like it's not big deal. He tells her the news and then waits for her response, but she can't really comprehend it, can't quite cope with what it means. She's been nursing the desperate hope for so long, that by the time it's finally validated, the words just don't make sense. The voice at the other end clears its throat, gives her some brief, general information to fill the prolonging silence, and then ends the call on its own, the line going dead.

Her legs give out.

* * *

They have to wait for several hours. It takes a couple of signatures and shuffling of official documentation before the "kidnapped man" can be finally airlifted and transported to New York Presbyterian.

Time slows to a trickle, the dragging hands of the clock doing nothing to ease Beckett's mind. Not even the knowledge that Castle might still be alive and for the time being, safely in the hands of medical personnel brings her comfort. Those hours are some of the most confusing of her life, where she has a hard time catching on. Everything is so bright and loud and hurried even as time stands still, the hands of the clock _still_ progressing at a glacial pace.

They have _no_ idea, no one has any idea, and it's this terror of not knowing that sends their guts spiraling. They don't even have definite confirmation that it's _him_, not to mention what state he's in, what's happened to him. What to expect after such long of an absence from their lives and God knows what treatment, what kind of man will be returned to them. It's been nine weeks. A little over two months.

An eternity.

The only thing they know for sure is that he's alive. Alive and stable enough to be transferred back to New York, to his family, to his home. He's finally coming _home_.

* * *

She can't stand sitting idly while they wait for news on Castle's status, so Kate spends the time on her phone, trying to suppress the initial shock that their ordeal might finally be _over_ by coping the only way she knows how: investigating.

She begins by calling the local police station in the county where he was found. Flagrantly using her status as an NYPD officer, she gets put through to the chief and demands details of the arrest.

The man is polite enough, even though he's rather brusque with her and guarded in what he discloses regarding the found man and the tip that lead to the arrest. However, he doesn't hold back on the details of the role he played in the capture. She has to grit her teeth, listen through his bravado and then even plant some poorly disguised compliments – _"one officer to another"_ – to get him talking more about the case.

They were found in a secluded farmhouse near the woods. Two people – a man and a woman matching the descriptions of Jerry Tyson (also known as the Triple Killer) and his accomplice, Kelly Nieman – were squatting there. Both were apprehended, and both are currently being transferred to New York under the custody of the FBI, but he has no idea where exactly since the case was taken out of his hands. It's no matter, because this isn't the information Kate seeks anyway. She wants to know more about the man that was found in their custody. The man, the chief tells her, they found shackled like a dog in the cellar; unconscious, half-naked, somewhat beaten and bloodied, lying on the pile of filthy hay covering the frigid concrete floor in a thin layer. The stench of urine and filth was overwhelming, the man tells her disgustedly, they must have kept him down there the whole time.

Her stomach rolls, bile rising to the back of her throat, but she gulps it back forcibly, pressing her trembling hand to her mouth and holding her phone even tighter to her ear while the chief continues. He tells her that the man wasn't very responsive; he appeared gaunt and badly malnourished, but well, it could have been worse, he guessed, huh? Oh, and he was dirty…did he mention he was dirty as hell? He may have even been drugged for all he knows, but the chief can't really say. The FBI's team was already taking over by then and, he spits bitterly, pushing him out of the room.

So no, he can't really say what the man's state was; there was too little light and too much dirt mixed with dark, caked blood. The ambulance arrived a short while later and took the man away, but he did see _something_. He did catch one proper glimpse of the man as they were loading him into the bus, the chief says enthusiastically, something like boyish excitement creeping into his attempted professionalism. He distinctly remembered the man's face, and when he googled the name associated with the alleged kidnapping a couple of weeks back, he noticed that the man _did_ look remarkably like that one Richard Castle, the missing New York writer.

Kate continues to listen mechanically to the chief's words, but she doesn't really hear them anymore, and later, after she hangs up, she realizes she didn't even thank the man. Despite how arrogant he sounded, he probably did save her fiancés life.

* * *

She's at the hospital before the transport carrying Castle even arrives, waiting at the place he'll be brought first, Martha and Alexis right there by her side. She doesn't share the details she knows with his family; not just yet, not until they learn more.

The boys stop by, and then Lanie, too. Boy, do news travels fast. They exchange a few words of comfort, her boys promising to look into the matter, to not let the FBI snatch the case completely out of their control. Beckett knows that she's going to want answers, and might not get them if the FBI takes over.

Lanie steps in close and envelops her in a warm hug, and it feels so good in the face of the huge unknowns they're facing. Beckett allows herself to break, just a tiny bit, letting a single tear run down her face; just _one_ before she braces herself for everything that's yet to come.

Their small group sits and waits in the uncomfortable orange plastic chairs of the waiting room, their insides churning and hearts heavy in their chests, beating in steady, subdued rhythms. Because despite everything that's happened, despite the unknown, he is still alive. That's what she tells herself: he is alive and whole, and that has to count for something. For now, it has to be enough.

* * *

It's nearly 1 am when the news finally comes down that the chopper has landed. She jumps to her feet, so _ready_ to see him, even as her palms start to sweat, but once again, it isn't as easy as that.

It takes another couple of hours of waiting until, after so many of their demands fall on deaf ears or as they are being asked for their continued understanding because "_The patient is currently being examined, please have a seat, we'll notify you immediately when you can see him,_" somebody _finally_ comes to see them and fill them in on what's happening.

She sent the boys and Lanie home a long time ago telling them that if there's any news, she'll notify them, reasoning than right now, there's really nothing they can do. The doctors will only talk to his immediate family anyway, and even as she thinks this, she refuses to acknowledge the fact that technically, she has no more legal claim to be there than their friends. She might be the fiancée, but she is not yet his wife, not really family. Not like his mother and daughter are. But it's absolutely without question that she stays.

It's shortly after three in the morning when the doctor shows up, when somebody finally acknowledges their presence, their _right_ to be there. He's a young man in his thirties, thin and tall with black horn-rimmed glasses. The name tag attached to his white coat says his name is Dr. Grant, and Dr. Grant must deal with patient's families often because the first thing he does after introducing himself is tells them the thing they've been most longing to know: that the patient has been successfully identified as Richard Castle, and that for the time being and all things considered, he's doing well and appears to be medically stable.

Yet he still doesn't take them to see him. Instead, he directs the three women into a quiet, empty family room just down the hall, pointing in silence for them to sit. Kate grits her teeth, but she does as she's instructed, dropping onto the couch with a little more force than intended, her anxiety and frustration poorly concealed. The doctor takes a moment to offer them coffee or juice, which makes Kate nearly crawl out of her skin, because would he just start already?

She declines his offer with as much politeness as she can muster, fixing her eyes imploringly on the doctor who seats himself an armchair opposite the three of them squeezed onto the narrow, lumpy couch, Kate and Martha's bodies protectively framing Alexis' in the middle.

Her palms start to sweat again as he _finally_ begins to talk, and she has to clasp them together between her thighs to stop them from shaking, her whole body a tightly wound mess of fears and emotions. She fastens her gaze on the doctor once more, forcing everything into that single look to let him know that this is not the time for procrastination or postponing the inevitable. They've waited enough, having already been to hell and back in the past couple of weeks, fearing their loved one was forever lost to them.

But they didn't lose him. He's still alive, and they want him back. They're _claiming_ him back.

* * *

_And yes. There might be more where this came from._


	2. Chapter 2

___**Enjoy the Silence**_

* * *

___A/N: Thank you, **Meg Moore**, for the wonderful work you do on this story. And thank you all for reading as well as taking the time to review. I appreciate every single form of feedback._

* * *

Chapter 2

"There's a lot to tell you, and some of it might be difficult to hear, so I'll just explain everything to the best of my abilities and you can ask questions if anything is unclear." Dr. Grant speaks in a careful, even tone, his eyes landing on Alexis, then flicking from Martha to Kate, as though looking to each of them for confirmation that he should continue. When they say nothing, he proceeds. "I want to start by assuring you all that we have confirmed that the man in our care is in fact Richard Castle, your relative. At this time, he appears to be stable and in no discomfort."

He clears his throat then, clearly bracing himself for what must be said next. "That said, there's no doubt that Mr. Castle has been abused and exposed to some extreme measures during his captivity. To give you my personal impression, it appears that he was forced to serve as a guinea pig of sorts. We don't exactly know all of the details yet, but it looks like in addition to being malnourished and restrained, he was also tortured and experimented on."

Kate tries to swallow, but it does nothing to alleviate the sour taste of bile in her mouth or push down the heavy lump situated in her throat. She feels something brush against her side and before she can even react, Alexis has grasped her hand, squeezing it _hard_.

"Experimented on?" What do you mean by _experimented on_? Experimented on _how_?" His daughter's voice is shrill and trembling as she quickly fires off the questions Kate herself doesn't really have the courage to ask. The doctor doesn't help matters any when he gives them all a sad, pitying look instead of a reply. But fuck…they don't need pity, they need answers.

"Please doctor. Continue," Martha says calmly, urging him on.

"To give you a whole picture here, let me first say that in spite of what we suspect was done to him, all in all, he looks to be in surprisingly good shape, albeit a little beaten up and emaciated." Grant emphasizes his next words with a finger tapping against the wood of the table standing between them, "Which is good news indeed. Very good. As far as we can tell, there's no imminent danger to his life or integrity, so we can manage his treatment from there."

_The good news always comes first_, Kate thinks bitterly, and only serves to placate them before a harsh blow is delivered. But she doesn't care, she finds with a surprise. She simply _doesn't care_. Yes, it will be tough managing his recovery, but whatever comes their way in the process, they'll face it together and be stronger for it. They _will_ make it. In fact, she will personally see to it that they make it, because she didn't spend the past couple of months praying and crying herself to sleep for nothing. If that hollow, desperate, lonely time has taught her anything, it's that nothing is worse than losing hope and allowing the darkness to swallow you, to break you into sharp, mismatched pieces that no one will be able to put back together again.

She speaks from personal experience, of course she does; she'd taken that path in the past, and it nearly killed her, on more than one occasion. It made her reckless and cold and detached, reduced her to a mere shadow of who she had the potential to be. It took nearly fifteen years and a certain intrusive, intuitive author barging unexpectedly into her life to become who she is today, and she's not willing to give that up. However, even she worries that she wouldn't be able to endure a loss like that for a second time in her life. Not a loss this extreme…not _Castle_. She can cope with most anything life sends in her direction, but she's not sure she could survive losing him.

So here she is, sitting in a stuffy family room at New York Presbyterian, listening to a doctor tell them all of the horrible things that were done to her fiancé, and maybe it's selfish, but she doesn't care, at least not like that. No matter what the doctor says, no matter how damaged or in what capacity Castle is returned to them, she doesn't care. She just wants him back, and she'll gladly take him, whatever his state.

Lost in her own thoughts, she must have stopped listening to the doctor at some point, his exact words escaping her notice, because she startles when she hears a sudden gasp from Alexis. Her slender fingers nearly crush Kate's, the pulsating pain at last bringing her back to the conversation.

"…and bruising, which suggests the asphyxiation was a recurring event."

Dr. Grant continues to describe his various injuries, both the old and the new: deep, painful bruising to rib cage, not to mention cuts and contusions and burns in various stages of healing all over his body. It's appalling, all of it; the descriptions of Castle's visible injuries are almost as terrible as the psychological wounds that she knows will lurk below the surface far after the physical ones have vanished. But Kate forces herself to breathe through it, to recall all of the horrible things they've already overcome: a bullet to the chest, dangling by two fingers from a roof, Alexis' kidnapping, torture at the hands of Vulcan Simmons, Bracken's schemes, not to mention Jerry Tyson himself. Each encounter they'd had with the man had been gradually worse and more twisted than the next.

And yet, they'd made it. Somehow, they'd beaten the odds, managing not only to survive but _thrive_. Castle's enthusiasm for life and his ability to see the best in people, even after all of the hardships and heartbreaks he had endured in his own past, had rubbed off on her, making her hopeful. So maybe, with enough time and loving care, with enough effort and positive thinking on _her_ part this time around, maybe they'll be able to get back to that place again. To be happy and whole again.

Kate fixes the doctor with an unwavering stare and focuses on his words, cataloguing away every word he says, every injury he lists. She finds herself creating a mental roadmap of Castle's traumas, of what it will take to help him heal, at least physically. She'll do anything.

"Also, there are small areas of burn marks strategically positioned all over his body, and while we haven't yet consulted Mr. Castle about how they occurred, the injuries suggest…"

"Electrocution." Kate finishes on a long, unsteady breath, her eyes falling shut briefly so she doesn't have to see the doctor's silent nod, but she doesn't need to. She already knows all too well.

_Oh Castle._

The doctor presses on, determined to finish his account for the three women. "Furthermore, there is…" He pauses then and squirms in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with what he must tell them next and it makes Kate's blood run cold. "There's no easy way to say this, but there's a…a _hole_ drilled into the side to his head that goes straight through the bone."

She hears a soft, pitiful moan from Alexis, followed by a heavy thud as Martha's body falls back against the couch. She thought she could stomach anything, that she was prepared for whatever he might tell them. But this…it's almost too much.

"We don't know the purpose behind the injury, only that it was drilled expertly and most likely with a surgical instrument. It appears that he was even treated to prevent infection, so thank God for that."

_Kelly Nieman_. Only she had the means and skill to do that. A sudden tingling starts in the tips of Kate's fingers, causing them to shake, the heat flowing from her hands, up her arms and through her body until the rage is so all consuming, she has to bite the inside of her cheek and draw blood to prevent herself from crying out.

"The wound has already begun to heal and close, but we will, of course, keep monitoring it closely. We've already done a CT and an MRI and neither scan has shown anything unusual, or any evidence of permanent injury to the brain or the surrounding structures, which is good."

_Good is obviously a highly subjective term_, Kate thinks bitterly.

"This brings me to the last two matters that I need to discuss with you. Both are areas of concern for us, and we'll need to wait until some answers can be provided by Mr. Castle himself."

"God, what else is there?" comes a low moan from Martha as she buries her face in her withered hands.

"It's clear that Mr. Castle's system has been pumped with drugs and various medications. We found traces of a variety of substances in his blood but we have yet to determine what all of them are. We're running a toxicology screen, but it can take months for some of the results to come back. For now, he appears to be stable, but we will have to once again monitor him closely in the coming days, weeks even, to look for changes of behavior, possible withdrawal symptoms and such. The tricky part is that we can't really know how to proceed right now, since we don't know what meds were administered to him, for how long and in what dosages, in what combinations, etcetera, so at this time, we won't do anything beyond observation. We hope that with time, Mr. Castle will be able to – at least partially – let us know what was administered to him and how."

Kate's voice is low and thready when she speaks. "There's a fair chance he won't remember being given anything, and even if he does, he probably won't know the actual drugs or dosages. He might not be able to tell us anything at all."

"Which brings us to the last issue we should discuss," Doctor Grant quickly offers, as though he was just waiting for this particular opening. "From what I understand, Mr. Castle has had no previous problems with his speech, is that correct?" When he sees their puzzled expressions, he elaborates. "What I'm getting at is that he was able to talk – to _speak_ – normally before his abduction, is that correct?"

The room falls into a deafening silence then.

* * *

_Which brings us to..._


	3. Chapter 3

**____****Enjoy the Silence**

* * *

_A/N: Meg, you are wonderful. :)_

* * *

Chapter 3

"What…what do you mean with…_before_? My dad has never had problems with his speech. In fact, he probably talks more than he should, always putting his foot into his mouth, or joking around in the most inappropriate situations before he has to…"

"Alexis." Martha's level voice is a reprimand and a soothing balm all in one. She's so gentle with her, motherly in the absence of her actual parents. "Let the good man finish before we jump to any conclusions, alright?" She threads her weathered hand through the red strands of her granddaughter's hair, and there's something so intimate in the gesture, Kate has to look away.

"Please, continue doctor," encourages Martha. He looks slightly uncomfortable following Alexis's outburst, but still determined to give them a full account.

"When Mr. Castle was brought in a couple of hours ago, he was asleep the majority of the time. Considering the strain that his body endured, he was understandably exhausted. Also, he was given some tranquilizers to keep him calm during the flight, so the first time he woke was for a short period of time during his CT. He seemed alert enough to understand and comprehend his surroundings and assist us in positioning himself, but he didn't reply to any of our questions. He fell asleep again shortly after the scan, but he started coming around more often after that. We tried to conduct a more thorough exam of his mental state once he was fully awake, and we started by asking him questions to determine if he was oriented, as well as some questions about his injuries and how they were acquired. Now, he was cooperative throughout the entire exam and complied with all the requests of the medical personnel, so we can preclusively rule out any severe neurological damage to the brain at this point, since his comprehension appears to be intact. It's his apparent inability to respond verbally that has us concerned; he simply can't or won't speak. He does use his hands and gesticulation to communicate, and shakes or nods his head appropriately. Also, he seems oriented enough to time and space, the flow of events, his surroundings and what's happening to him. All his reactions seem more than appropriate considering his condition, maybe even exceeding some expectations on our part, but we simply can't get a word out of him."

Kate presses the heels of her hands against her eyes in an effort to keep it together, the force making the blackness behind her lids burst with brightly colored stars. "Maybe," she starts, but her voice is a throaty croak. She stops abruptly, pulling her hands down in order to look at the doctor and deliberately clearing her throat before she begins again. "Can't it simply be that he's just too overwhelmed? Or that he doesn't trust you fully? That despite being freed, he hasn't seen a familiar face just yet?"

The doctor doesn't dismiss her outright, quietly contemplating her words, and it gives her hope. His expression is thoughtful rather than pitying for once, and that alone makes her feel so much better, the tight vice squeezing her heart loosening slightly. Because that's what Castle's taught her, right? _There's always a story, and the story is important. The "why" is important._

"Of course, that could be one possible explanation," the doctor answers slowly, pushing his dark-rimmed glasses up his nose. "We would expect to see some lingering paranoia and mistrust in a case like this." Still, he looks hesitant to give her theories much credence, and with a sinking heart, Kate realizes he's only humoring her and her attempts to make sense of this situation.

"What else could be the cause, doctor?" asks Martha. The woman is so collected, regal in her posture and conduct, a picture of stoic strength, and Kate discovers a whole new level of admiration and respect for her mother-in-law-to-be. His _mother_. She can't even imagine what she must be going through.

"We are, of course, looking into all of the possible physiological reasons right now. It might still be something neurological, or there might possibly be damage to his vocal chords, or some other injury that we're not aware of yet. If we don't find any, then we'll have to look into possible psychological causes, which, if I'm being completely honest, I'm more inclined to believe is the actual cause of his mutism."

"What makes you say that?" Alexis inquires in a small voice, but there's plenty of defiance hidden there, too. "You said that he was communicating well by other means, so if it were psychological, why would it only affect his speech? Why so selective?"

"Well, in truth, we don't yet know the real extent or character of the trauma inflicted upon Mr. Castle, but already we can say that it was extreme. The length of his imprisonment and the physical abuse are similar to situations that we see in cases of war prisoners, rape victims, people who've experienced something of that nature. When people who have undergone an extremely traumatic event can't cope with the severity it, they'll demonstrate certain signs and symptoms of that distress in the aftermath of the event. There's depression, anxiety, panic disorder, PTSD."

Kate bites her lip, her own experiences with PTSD suddenly fresh in her mind, but the doctor merely takes a breath before continuing, "Some have suicidal thoughts, or difficulties integrating back into normal life, and some experience psychosomatic manifestations like pain, insomnia, dizziness, muscle weakness, distorted vision or, as is the possible case here, selective muteness. A person might demonstrate just a single symptom, while others might suffer from a combination of these and possibly even more."

The doctor pauses for a moment when he takes in the expressions of the women before him, a mix of horror and dismay and shock. "I'm very sorry to unsettle you. In truth, this might not be the case at all, but you should be prepared for all the possibilities. For now, all we can do is to wait and see."

Alexis clears her throat, the brilliant blue of her eyes glassy and unfocused as her stare burns a hole into the table in front of her, "The…the muteness…if it's psychological, will it be permanent?"

Kate curses her cowardice, ashamed but grateful that Alexis has been brave enough to voice the obvious questions, because at present, she can't bring herself to do it. The possibility that she would never again hear him say her name with that amused, open little grin of his, or be able to breathe all of his secrets against her ear while they were making love, to hear him laugh and boast over his latest conquest in the world of gaming…that thought alone shatters her heart in a way she never thought possible. Is that shallow of her? Focusing on something so seemingly insignificant in comparison to the possibility that he might have lost limbs, or worse, that she might have lost him altogether?

She should be grateful. She _knows_ she should. He is alive and whole and safe…finally _safe_. At the end of the day, he's going home with them, and she gets to take care of him for once. She'll feed him and tuck him into their bed, crawl in with him and love him, press her face into the crook of his neck and just breathe him in. That knowledge is so much more than she had yesterday. It's _everything _compared to what she had yesterday. And yet, his voice, his words…

It feels like too much.

"There's honestly no way of knowing at this point," Dr. Grant answers cautiously, knowing how important it is that he tempers their optimism. "It might be a temporary condition, or it could become permanent, or it might only occur in certain situations, like if he's triggered psychologically. Either way, I definitely wouldn't draw any conclusions just yet; I recommend adopting a wait and see attitude for the time being. Maybe something will click for him sooner than we think and he'll be talking again in no time. Let's just not get ahead of ourselves here, shall we?"

"Can we see him?" The words stumble ungracefully out of Kate's mouth but she can't hold the question in any longer, the one that's been burning a hole in her tongue ever since the doctor first came to see them. She just needs to see him. Just for a little while, _please_, so she can convince herself that this is really, _finally_ happening. Suddenly, voice or no voice, she just wants to see him. Hold him close and never let him out of her sight ever again.

The conversation they just had with the doctor, the endless list of his injuries and the horrors that he had been subjected to, the deeply disturbing things implied underneath all the medical sweet-talk...that's enough. More than enough. No more tonight.

She'll deal with it eventually, all of it. She'll take it from the shadowy black box that she keeps all of her deepest, darkest thoughts in. Later, when she's allowed a moment of respite, when she's able to sink under the weight of it all in private, then she'll open it back up again and look at the atrocities hiding inside, letting it all fester and eat at her.

But not now. She can't allow herself the luxury of wallowing right now, not when Castle is so _close_ to her reach, safe and yet still so very much alone.

The doctor hesitates for just a fraction of a second, but he must recognize a lost cause when he sees one, because he seems to understand that none of them will be leaving the hospital until they get to see their loved one for themselves.

"Okay, but just to be clear, your visit needs to be kept brief. He's injured and traumatized, and desperately needs rest right now more than anything else. So please, try to keep it down and don't overwhelm him. And please, _don't _try to make him talk," the doctor warns even as he rises to his feet, leading them out the door and into the long corridor. "I know it sounds harsh, but he's been through a lot, so not overwhelming him is the rule of thumb here," he adds on an apologetic note as he leads them down the hall, nodding to the night nurse as they walk by the brightly lit station and into another, even more secluded corridor to the left.

Beckett doesn't mind his words, doesn't find them offensive. In fact, she welcomes them, finds them oddly reassuring. It makes her feel like Castle is in good, capable and caring hands.

He walks them to the very last room of the endless corridor, a single uniform sitting guard outside. Upon spotting them he jumps to his feet, gives Beckett an unnecessary salute and a slight nod that she automatically returns.

It was Esposito who had arranged for the officer to stand guard, the idea coming from him directly. And although his reasoning was to shield Castle in case news of the famous kidnapped writer finally being recovered traveled too fast, and the need arose to keep the vultures from the press at bay, Beckett knows he'd done it just as much for her and her own peace of mind.

Because for fuck's sake, her fiancé was snatched off the road on his way to their wedding, and she already knows that she will never, _ever_ get over that. She'll never be able to shake off the feeling of dread that crept down her spine when she got that call, the gutting emptiness stretching in front of her when she stood in the dirt at the side of the road, watching her future go up in flames. Jerry Tyson may be behind bars and Castle might be safe, but it'll be a long time before she stops looking over her shoulder at the mere thought of him disappearing – being taken – again.

So yes, it helps, in an irrational, visceral way, to have the peace of mind that somebody is watching over his room around the clock, at least until she could take over the job permanently.

The doctor pushes the door open but doesn't walk inside with them, merely holds it open so they're able to pass.

"Remember, just a couple of minutes, and then unfortunately, you'll be need to leave," he repeats firmly but kindly. "However, you can come back in the morning and stay as long as you'd like, his condition permitting. Visiting hours begin at ten."

With that, he gives them all a final reassuring smile and ushers them inside the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Enjoy the Silence_**

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for the beatiful response so for. Also - Meg, you rock._

* * *

Chapter 4

He's asleep when they come in. He's asleep, but it's him and God…it's Castle and he is _alive_.

The room is cast in shadows, the only illumination coming from the beeping monitors and the streetlamps hidden behind the half drawn blinds, their ambient light throwing slats of light across the wall and ceiling.

Kate walks in last, allowing his mother and daughter to immediately take the posts on either side of his bed, directly in his line of vision should he awaken, and she moves further up to stand right at the head of the bed near his shoulder.

"Oh, dad," whispers Alexis in a thick voice, her tears audible in each word she speaks. And Kate can't blame her, because he _does_ look bad. There's just no other word for it.

She knows what she's talking about, too. She's seen her fair share of the gruesome and upsetting, the stomach-turning even, but hell, when it's somebody you know, someone you love, it's so much worse.

She gulps it down however, all of it, and moves in closer instead, one of her hands rising to hover just over the side of his head, the side with the thick bandage that must be covering the hole the doctor told them about.

Fuck! _They drilled a hole into his goddamn head._

She withdraws her hand, closes her fingers into a tight fist, her breathing suddenly erratic and coming in shallow, furious puffs, her thin control over her emotions almost slipping. She feels the urge to smash something, like putting her fist through a wall, or better yet, the face of the people responsible.

His hair has been cut very close to the scalp, presumably in order for the doctors to clean and treat the cuts and scrapes covering his head. The upper part of his body is shirtless and exposed, only a thin sheet covering his chest where it's neatly tucked under his armpits. She can see numerous injuries in various stages of healing; bruises, cuts, abrasions, burns. It's nothing she hasn't seen before, nothing a little time can't heal. But he's so thin; too _thin_, and there's a particularly angry-looking bruise running shades of purple and green down one of his cheeks, until it disappears under his chin where his jaw is peppered with days-old stubble.

He's still rugged and handsome though, in spite of his current condition, to her he'll always be, although she never admitted it openly. And her heart soars that it's him, it's really _him_.

_Castle_.

He looks so peaceful in his sleep, so unbothered, that if she imagines away the bruises and the medicinal smell of the hospital room and the incessant beeping of the machines, she can almost believe that this is home, that he's lying in their bed, out like the light after some intense day at the precinct, his hair lost due to a stupid bet with the boys. There's a moment where she wonders if this all might go away, the nightmare of the past weeks gone with the coming daylight filling in the shadows.

A single tear rolls down her cheek, but she ignores it, and instead makes sure there are no more of them. Now's not the time to fall apart.

"Richard," his mother whispers, stroking his exposed arm, and the tone of her voice is so gentle, so pleading, it makes Kate's throat tighten with grief. "Darling, can you hear us?" The caress of her wrinkled hand travels down until it rests upon his own, where she grasps his thick fingers between her slender ones.

And his eyes open.

Maybe he was truly asleep or maybe only resting, but he's fully awake now as his eyes rapidly wander around trying to focus on his dimmed surroundings, two huge dark pools that appear alert and sharp even in the low light. His eyes find his daughter first and his hand shoots up surprisingly fast, snatching Alexis's forearm, his grip shaky but tight.

"Daddy?" she whispers, her voice uncertain, and she sounds like a child again, but happy tears are already rolling down her face. It takes him just a second, only a moment for him to blink as if clearing his vision before he simply smiles, wide and uninhibited, so brilliant and powerful it sets the whole room alight. A long, rattling breath escapes his lips, as if he's been holding it inside for ages, and then his face morphs into a grimace as he finally lets his guard down, tears filling his eyes in overwhelming elation and relief. Alexis is right there, so close, her long hair momentarily blocking Kate's vision as she throws herself closer to give her father a tight hug, unable to hold herself back any longer.

"It's gonna be okay," Alexis says in a broken voice, the poor rattled girl trying her best to soothe her father, but her own voice fails her, tears streaming down her face too. "You're home now, safe…you're gonna be okay."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Beckett registers the beeping of his heart monitor spiking up, but that's probably to be expected, she reasons as she watches the whole scene unfold, her heart in her throat. There is so much unsaid yet, so much, but this moment…this single moment feels so very right.

And then it doesn't, not anymore, not when her eyes catch sight of Castle's hand, twitching on the bed, gripping the covers until his knuckles turn white. That's when she makes the connection and remembers the doctor's words, the deep, painful bruising to his ribs, his muteness and the way his daughter clings to him as if for dear life. The beeping grows louder, and she suddenly understands all too well.

She takes a step forward, grasping Alexis by her upper arms, gently but firmly pulling the girl's body away from her father's to help his discomfort, whispering in Alexis's ear as she does, "Be careful of his ribs, okay?"

The girl immediately jerks back, shooting huge, doe-like eyes at her father, an apology already forming on her lips but he quickly catches on, shaking his head, still so surprisingly alert. He takes his daughter's hand instead, kisses the back before clasping it in his against his chest. He blinks his eyes, slow and tired, yet contentment and some measure of peace settles over his face as he silently regards his mother and daughter. It takes him a moment until his eyes finally fall upon Kate, who is still partially hidden behind Alexis but stepping forward then at last.

Their eyes catch and there's a moment where everything stands still, where nothing else around them exists. It's just a fraction of a second, hardly a single breath, and then his hand is fiercely fumbling on the sheets and crawling up, fumbling but intense, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arm, then her shoulder, still moving up until they tangle in her hair at the back of her head. His heavy hand drags her close even as she resists, trying to be careful of his tender ribs, but he doesn't seem to care. He pulls her to his body even tighter, until her head hits the crook of his neck where she can feel his sweat, smelling antiseptic and carelessly washed away blood and the warmth of his skin. She presses a kiss there, firm and sweet, selfishly lingering even though she probably really shouldn't.

"Hey, Castle," she murmurs, and she can sense how her words ripple across his skin, goose bumps hitting her lips as the slightest shudder runs down his neck and shoulders. He cranes his head, muscles tense, but he only nuzzles closer to her, buries his face into her hair as her fingers gently stroke his discolored jaw, the stubble there scratching against the pads of her fingers. Castle, still so loving, so needy, always affectionate and finally home.

She can feel his lips pressing hard and ruthless against her throat, trying to reach as much skin as possible, stroking and clutching at her neck and hair, and she certainly doesn't need words to understand what he's trying to say to her. Not for this.

"I missed you too." She whispers on a choked laugh against the shell of his ear, her voice breaking. "We all missed you so much, but you're home now and it's going to be alright. I promise you, Castle, it's going to be alright."

She shouldn't be making promises like that, and yet she continues to whisper sweet words of reassurance to him, ignoring the spasms in her neck as he holds her to him almost painfully tight, willing herself to be persuaded by her own words, desperately wanting to make them be true.

xxx

As expected, they're asked to leave soon after and are told to return in the morning. Even as they depart, Castle is already drifting off again, his initial fit of wakefulness inevitably giving way to exhaustion. According to the clock on the wall, it's already morning, the numbers reading almost 4 am. Still, they're sent home.

The keys rattle in the lock and Martha pushes the door open, the three of them spilling inside. Alexis makes a beeline toward her room, too tired to even shrug off her coat as she walks up the stairs. Kate just stares after her, lost in thought and too exhausted to offer any kind of support.

It should be a happy day, the day Alexis got her father back. This doesn't feel like a victory, though. It's certainly not a defeat; God no, it could never be that. But...it shouldn't have to be this hard, either. The girl has had enough of that to last her a lifetime.

"Katherine, are you coming inside?"

Only then does Kate realize that she's still standing in the door, not fully inside the loft yet. She attempts to shake off her somber mood, tells herself that her exhaustion is simply getting the better of her, and concentrates on taking off her shoes and hanging up her jacket instead. One task at a time. It's a process that has gotten her through the past nine weeks. She joins Martha in the kitchen then, climbing onto one of the stools rather gracelessly.

Without preamble, Martha opens a cabinet and produces a bottle of bourbon and two heavy glass tumblers. She pours herself three fingers then tilts the bottle in Kate's direction, her eyebrows raised in inquiry.

Kate simply nods and Martha pours her the same generous amount, the two of them silently walking to the couch and nursing their drinks in quiet contemplation there. There's so much to be said that's just been left hanging in the air, so much that needs to be said _aloud_, but they just sit there in the somewhat comfortable silence, both of them unable or unwilling to break the precarious balance they've achieved.

Before even half of Kate's drink is gone, Martha is already pouring herself another, her eyes conspicuously shiny as she stares off into space, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

It's shocking because it's such a complete turnaround. For the past two months, even in the hospital just an hour ago, up until right this instant, Martha has been nothing short of a rock; a source of hope and light not only for Alexis, but for Kate as well. But there's nothing left of that woman here now; none of her usual spirit and flair, none of the plucky diva they simultaneously love and tolerate. Now, she's just an old woman sitting on her son's couch, nursing a lonely drink held in her withered hands. It shakes Kate to the core, seeing her future mother-in-law like this, like she has nothing left to give.

"Martha," she starts even as she searches for the right words, putting her unfinished glass on the coffee table. She draws closer, gently setting Martha's bourbon aside before grasping her hands in her own. "We… " she speaks tentatively, "We got him back. That's what's important now. Everything else..." She pauses for a moment, swallows down the lump in her throat, "Everything else will come in time. We'll get him back, all of him. I promise." She adds, once again cursing herself internally when she knows she really shouldn't be making such promises. She knows better than anyone that there are no guarantees in life.

And yet, this is his_ mother_. Martha Rodgers, the woman who helped her unfasten and slip out of her wedding dress with a solid, steady hand because Kate couldn't do it herself, her whole frame shaking violently as sobs wracked her body. Martha had stood her ground, poured buckets worth of hope into Kate when hers was running thin.

She cradles Martha's fingers now and brings one of her hands to rest in her lap, gripping tight. She gets a watery, tight-lipped smile for her efforts, and just the tiniest of nods before his mother finally speaks.

"I know, dear. If anybody can get him back to the man he was before, it's you."

Whoa. Talk about pressure.

Blood rushes to Kate's cheeks, more out of shame than delight. It wasn't even her who got him back; it wasn't her keen detective skills, or the fierce search carried out by several different law enforcement agencies. If his rescue had been dependent on her, Castle would still be suffering at Tyson's hand, and the very thought fills her with dread, a heavy stone sitting in her gut.

Martha pats her hand and Kate's attention returns to the present. "I'm going to go to bed now my dear, and try to get a couple of hours of sleep. I suggest you do the same." She rises to her feet, taking the drink with her, and squeezes Kate's shoulder as she leaves. She trudges heavily up the stairs, her feet dragging in a manner she usually reserves for after her infamous all-nighters.

Kate sits for a little while longer, watching little drops of condensation run down her glass and stain the dark wood of the table. She sighs, rising to her feet after at last, and with every step that she takes in the direction of their bedroom, she feels the weight of each and every single one of her thirty-five years.

She already knows that there's no sleep in store for her. It's already early morning, dim light slowly creeping into the loft from behind the living room blinds. She takes her drink, walks into his study, and powers up Castle's laptop. His chair is comfortable and familiar, and she slowly sips her bourbon while she waits, thoughts swirling in her mind.

She sends a quick email to update her dad, the boys, and Lanie before opening up a browser window and starting to type the words – the questions – she desperately wants to have answers to.

_Muteness, mutism, trauma, PTSD and selective mutism, experimental drugs, cranial surgery and the speech center, captivity, kidnapping, imprisonment, torture, psychological warfare._

It makes her stomach churn and twist, and she has to step away from the laptop more than once, forcibly push down the bile rising in her throat as she reads through the multitude of information. But she keeps at the task, stubbornly combing through page after page of articles on medicine and psychology, as well as some user interface discussions and help forum materials.

A woman on a mission.

Outside the sturdy windows of the loft, the morning light grows stronger and the street grows louder with the thickening early morning traffic, but she doesn't really notice as she sifts through her findings, cataloguing the topics into folders, saving links to URLs she might need, downloading pages she finds relevant.

Kate Beckett has always been a firm believer that knowledge makes a person powerful, and in her case, it also makes her feel more in control. So when Alexis walks into the kitchen a few hours later, bleary-eyed and disheveled from her fitful sleep, she finds a steely new Beckett sitting at the counter, sipping her morning coffee, offering a steady smile. A woman determined and collected, cautiously optimistic, but most importantly, ready to meet whatever the new day brings.

* * *

_A/N: So, what will the light of the new day bring? Stay tuned. :)_


	5. Chapter 5

**_Enjoy the Silence_**

* * *

_A/N: Meg, you make the story so much better._

* * *

Chapter 5

Martha stays at home in the end, explaining that she doesn't want her son to feel crowded, and she assures them that she will follow later in the day. Alexis is more than a little upset by what she perceives to be an apparent lack of enthusiasm on her grandmother's part, but one look at Martha tells Kate everything Castle's mother isn't saying aloud. Red-rimmed eyes, a swollen, stuffed nose, and a nearly empty bourbon bottle in the trash are confirmation enough that Martha's in no state of mind to visit her son this morning. She isn't this woman, not to her son anyway, and it's painfully obvious that she doesn't have the strength to put on a show for him this morning, or anyone else for that matter. Alexis might not understand it, but Kate can see the sadness and strain written so clearly across Martha's face, the fact that she'd rather stay home and risk being considered a careless, unfeeling mother than to go and upset her son with the evidence of how much this has gotten to her written all over her face.

So when they leave that morning, Kate takes an extra moment to pull Martha into a tight hug, pressing a lasting kiss against her cheek and offering a gentle, compassionate smile, trying to pour everything she's not saying into the gesture. This woman might just be the closest thing to a mother figure she'll ever have, and she's been nothing but supportive of Kate over the years. It's high time to pay her back for her kindness. By the shiny, grateful look in Martha's eyes, Kate knows she succeeded. At least the day starts with that victory, however tiny it might be.

The hospital is busy when they arrive, the day shift already having begun hours before, but as they move up the floors to the private rooms, it gets quieter. They briefly check in at the nurse's station and walk to his room at the far end of the hall, and the presence of the police officer in front of his door feels reassuring all over again.

Castle is asleep when the two of them slip inside. Even the loud, incessant beeping of the machines doesn't disturb his heavy sleep, a fact for which Kate is grateful.

They sit down, framing his body on either side of the bed, content to simply observe, occasionally whispering a thought they've just had to the other. Alexis is unusually quiet; whether she's still upset over her grandmother's absence or in order to not to disturb her sleeping father, Kate can't tell for sure. The girl takes her fathers hand after a while and sighs heavily while observing his tired, damaged face.

A nurse comes in from time to time in order to check on her patient, and each time she writes some notes into his chart and exchanges some warm words with his visitors. She's kind but not obtrusive, and Kate uses her second visit to ask about Castle's doctor and his schedule. There was only time to get the basics surrounding his condition last night, but now, in the light of day, the fact that Castle is truly back is finally sinking in, they need to go through the more practical aspects of his stay at the hospital, such as the next steps in his recovery and when they can expect him to be discharged.

Castle starts to stir sometime after eleven, but truly comes awake nearly an hour later and not completely of his own volition, when a different, rather impatient nurse pokes and prods at the IV catheter in the back of his hand a little too carelessly. His eyes snap open, and he is up and alert within seconds, something Kate isn't used with him, but it takes him a moment or two to properly focus and take in his surroundings. Alexis reflexively jumps to her feet, posing herself directly in his line of vision and his body immediately relaxes, his eyes growing tender at the sight of his daughter.

"Hey, daddy," she whispers somewhat shyly, a bit unsure of what to say, what to expect. But Castle doesn't disappoint, his lips spreading into a tremendous smile that has Kate's heart aching and longing for more; more of that gorgeous smile and joyous sparkle in his eyes.

His gaze wanders away from his daughter then and lands on her and it's such a radical change from last night, from that broken, crying man whose fear and despair shimmered so brightly in his eyes, that it knocks Kate's breath from her lungs.

It's _Castle_ looking back at her, not only his body, but his soul too. That happy, mischievous spark is still present in his crisp blue eyes, dimmed slightly, perhaps, but it's a spark nevertheless. The sleep must have done him some good, because he's still smiling so wildly, so openly that it makes her heart swell with hope that's almost too big to be contained within her chest. He raises his hand to wave his fingers sweetly at her, a gesture of welcome she immediately responds to by closing the remaining space between them and pressing a quick kiss against his lips.

"Hey you," she murmurs.

* * *

The nurse brings him the breakfast he slept through that morning a short time later, food that he looks extremely enthusiastic about considering it's just some buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and a diced fruit cup. But he still digs in like somebody who hasn't eaten in days and fuck, maybe he truly hasn't. The thought hits Kate so hard, so suddenly, that it transforms her own stomach into tight, nervous knots.

He creates a mess around himself as he eats his meal with gusto, making Alexis laugh with his antics while he sips the coffee Kate brought them from the cafeteria. The food is gone in a flash, just a couple of crumbs remaining, and Kate's heart takes a strange, painful flip as she watches him carefully collect them all one by one – even the tiniest morsels – in the palm of his hand before quickly shoving them into his mouth, momentarily forgetting his manners for the sake of the sustenance. He looks at them sheepishly then, a self-conscious smile appearing on his face as he shrugs his shoulders, but Kate just shakes her head, throwing a subdued smile in his direction.

They…communicate. Somewhat. Mostly, it's Alexis who talks, filling the silence as best she can in the absence of a real conversation, the absence of her father's voice. It must make her uncomfortable, Kate realizes, because she often falls into ramblings, occasionally tripping over her own words. Castle merely listens, trying to give his daughter all the attention she deserves, but all too soon his eyes start to droop, the exhaustion setting in once again.

Martha arrives shortly after, perfectly groomed and impeccably dressed as usual. There's a huge smile for her audience adorning her face when she steps into the room, and Kate can only admire the woman for the effort it must have taken to slip into the role of the cheery, unsinkable diva once again; she saw for herself just mere hours ago how much this entire situation is really costing her.

Castle is already asleep again so Martha quietly questions her granddaughter, and Kate uses the opportunity to slip out of the room to call her dad and the boys with an update, and freshens up in the nearby bathroom. She hasn't slept for nearly two days and she's starting to feel the fatigue setting in, but she fights it with a splash of cold water to her face and another cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria.

Castle's doctor arrives shortly after she gets back, informing them they'll be taking him for a few more diagnostics that afternoon. They don't really get a chance to talk in depth as he has rounds to complete, but he assures them that he'll return later, after the tests are complete.

The room is crowded and yet talk is sparse, the quietness that Kate is usually a huge fan of feeling strange and unnatural while she's in the company of the Castles. It gets even worse when they wheel him out for his tests, the atmosphere oppressive as they wander aimlessly about his room, awaiting his return. Alexis sits under the window pretending to be reading a magazine, but Kate notices that she hasn't turned a page in nearly half an hour. Martha plays with her jangling bracelets, inspecting the little beads closely, her gesture reminding Kate of a nun praying with a rosary. So when Castle is finally wheeled back to the room, exhausted and already half-asleep _again_, Kate finally seizes the opportunity to have a conversation with his doctor.

It's Dr. Grant, she reminds herself as she approaches him, momentarily ashamed when she thinks back to how she had to ask a nurse for his name again. It's not usually a mistake she makes, especially in her profession, not recalling the names of people that might be important to remember. But yesterday was a day where she was in no state of mind to see the man as a true person instead of just a doctor providing Castle's care.

Part of her online research that morning had been looking into the man who was responsible for fiancé's care. Now she knows that he's a specialist in intensive care, studied at Northwestern, and has been employed at New York Presbyterian for a little over five years. No scandals to speak of, medical or otherwise, and if the articles Kate found of him online are anything to go by, the man is a damn fine doctor and an experienced specialist too, having published a number of acclaimed scholarly articles. Her mind is at peace about the man entrusted with Castle's health.

She practically chases him out of Castle's room and into the corridor, where she comes to an abrupt halt when she finds him leaning against the wall just a couple of feet from the door, calmly noting something into the chart he's holding. It's as if he's waiting for her, expecting her to approach him at some point.

"Doctor Grant, could I speak to you?"

He raises his eyes from the chart, gives her a way too understanding smile. So he _has_ been expecting her - or somebody from the family at least - to come and seek him out sooner rather than later.

"Of course, Detective Beckett," he replies without the least hesitation, flipping the chart closed and pushing it under one of his arms. "You want to know what we found."

It's a statement, so Kate merely nods.

"Why don't we find a quieter place to talk then, shall we?" he offers, gesturing for her to follow him down the hall.

She does, trying to ignore the wild trashing of her uncertain, trembling heart.

* * *

_A/N: I would love to read your thoughts. Good or bad. :)_


	6. Chapter 6

**_Enjoy the Silence_**

* * *

_A/N: Dear Meg, I know I should probably write more, but I am sure you'll forgive me if I only say THANK YOU. You know for what._

* * *

Chapter 6

They talk for a long time, comparing notes; Grant about his observations, the tests, their results, and what they might indicate. That leaves Kate to talk about Castle, about what kind of man he is. It's not easy for her by any means, and it almost feels like a betrayal, but she sees the inevitability of it if they want to piece together the heart of the problem and figure out the best way to help him.

The tests only confirm what Grant had suspected about the mutism: whatever is causing it, it doesn't appear to be physiological in origin, and doesn't seem to be a neurological issue either. There's no real problem with his ability to communicate, nor any other issues that might be caused by damage to his brain or neurological structures. His reflexes are sharp and Grant concludes that all in all, he's in remarkably good physical condition, barring the deep bruising to his ribs, and the fatigue caused by his weight loss and the lack of proper nutrition, sleep and regular movement.

Well. They clearly have their differences where the definition of "good physical condition" is concerned.

He's malnourished. Beaten black and blue. Burned and cut and broken. He's still seriously dehydrated and is receiving fluids through an IV line. He can barely look into light without squinting. He's cold all the time, the occasional shiver running down his body and wracking his whole frame. He has a fucking _hole_ drilled into his skull and yet, modern medicine declares him almost healthy. A little _beaten up_, sure, but nothing that will require a long hospital stay.

Seriously, Kate doesn't want to know what these people see on a daily basis if this is how they perceive "healthy", because despite seeing the aftermath of murder on a regular basis, it never fails to shock her. She's never made a distinction between a "good" or "bad" one; it's all terrible.

But that's not even the point, she thinks darkly, running her hands through her hair in frustration. This isn't even why she sought Grant out.

Because yes, she can deal with his physical injuries. She knows her fair share of the infuriating, debilitating, exhausting state of having to fight against the constant pain and strain that resides in your very bones. So she thinks she can help with that part; she can share in it and can help distract Castle's mind during his rehabilitation. She can help to keep him from feeling helpless and crippled while he's recuperating. She's already done it before, and she'll gladly do it again.

No, it's the possible mental scars that sent her seeking the council of his doctor in the first place. It's the unknown that has her stomach churning; it's keeping her awake and her mind reeling despite the sandy heaviness pushing against her eyes. She needs to know _everything_. She needs some answers before she can start to dive into it herself, needs to know the shallow end by heart if she wants to have a chance to survive in the murky depths.

So they talk.

Not one, but _two_ laryngologists had a look at him, Grant tells her. They've examined his throat, his vocal cords, and even his ears, but all of those results were satisfactory, nothing unusual that would suggest being the cause of the mutism. He talked the case over with his colleagues and they all came to the same conclusion – that at this juncture, it appears that Castle's muteness is psychological in origin.

She knows what Grant is thinking, because she is thinking the exact same thing: it would probably be so much easier if it were a physical ailment. But, it's something one sees all too often, Grant tells her with a compassionate tilt of his head as he tries to make sense of it for her.

Patients who receive a life-changing diagnosis. A loved one dying. Victims of violent, heinous crimes. The mentally ill, people befallen with extreme anxiety and depression. There were a myriad of causes, but it's most often an event that leaves them with such a huge hole in their psyche, that it starts to manifest itself in all the kinds of psychosomatic symptoms.

Anxiety, excessive sweating, social phobias, panic attacks, dizziness, muscle weakness, vomiting, diarrhea, excessive crying, self-harm, catatonia and problems with hearing or sight. Anorexia or gluttony, aggression or apathy…the mind always tries to find a way to escape, to cope the only way it knows how.

So yes, mutism is rare, Grant tells her, but not unheard of, and it's certainly not a stretch in Castle's case. Knowing this doesn't ease the fist in her chest, though.

"Sometimes, it'll go away on its own. Sometimes the patient needs a little outside help, which may mean medication or therapy, or both. Regardless, he'll need to be in a supportive environment." He gives Kate a warm smile then. "Something that Mr. Castle will no doubt have."

She returns the smile, although hers doesn't fully reach her eyes. He really is a kind man, but right now, she's having a difficult time locating the silver lining here. All she can think about on a loop is, what must have been done to Castle to scar his mind – his wonderful, imaginative mind – like that. It makes her nauseous, but she quickly clears her throat and forces it down.

"Okay. So you're saying that there's a block," she offers, rubbing her palms nervously before pushing them between her legs to stop them from shaking. "That whatever happened to him was such a heavy trauma, it caused him to stop talking?"

"That's what I've come to believe, yes," he answers evenly. "See," he continues quickly, his eyes suddenly shining with the intrigue and the mystery of the human mind, "I don't think that he's lost his ability to talk altogether, but I do believe that there are firm rules to his condition."

That gets her attention. "Rules?"

"Yes. Even when we examined him, it was never a one-way conversation. His comprehension appears to be completely intact. He did what we asked of him, he responded to our questions by nodding or shaking his head, used facial expressions and his hands to express himself. It was only when it came to speech, to verbal communication of any kind, that he shut down. He didn't even look like he didn't _want_ to, it was more like he just _couldn't_."

Kate nods thoughtfully, tries to commit all of this information to memory. "Have you tried to give him some pen and paper? You know, he _is_ a writer. Maybe…" Grant frowns at that, shaking his head and her heart sinks.

"Well, we certainly tried, but he refused, kept pushing us away. We don't know whether there's a deeper meaning to that, or maybe I'm just overanalyzing things," he shrugs, but Beckett urges him to continue, wants to know every tiny detail he might have to offer. "I mean, maybe he was just tired, or maybe he didn't trust us, or maybe he was in too much discomfort to write."

Kate nods at him encouragingly, once again storing the information away despite the heaviness in her heart. She doesn't want to be pessimistic, simply prepared, but the more she hears...

Castle is a talker. A writer. Speech, words…that's how he expresses himself best. It's not merely about communication; it's about the essence of who he is. There is very little chance he would refuse an opportunity to express himself by pen and paper if he had no other choice. Then again, she doesn't know anything for certain anymore. This is all just speculation. She doesn't know what happened, what those fucking swine did to him, what it was like for him. She has no idea how his mind dealt with it when he was forced to function at the most basic levels of survival, how it affected him during those long, never-ending weeks of captivity.

Hell, after her run-in with Vulcan Simmons, she slept in a pair of wool socks under two layers of blankets and still felt the chill creeping into her bones. It went on for weeks, and his torture of her was a picnic compared to what Castle's been through. She just has _no_ idea.

Tears of anger and helplessness fill her eyes, her failure shaming her cheeks crimson because God, for nine weeks she didn't have as much as a single lead. She gulps down the guilt, forcing down everything she hasn't allowed herself to feel since his rescue, because it's not about her. Fuck, it's not about – never mind.

But all his daughter needed was less than a week.

Clearing her throat, she finally asks the only thing that makes sense. "So what do you do suggest we do? How do we help him?" Her voice is deep and throaty, and it probably gives away more than she would like, because Grant gives her a sad, contemplative look that she recognizes as the one she sometimes uses herself when speaking to victim's families.

"Take him home." Grant says quietly. "Give it time. Let him adjust, decompress, get used to the normalcy of a daily routine again."

She barks out a surprising laugh at that because, God help them all, routine was never Rick Castle's forte, but Grant continues unfazed. "Give him time to accept that he's finally home, make him feel safe and cared for."

_That much she can certainly do. _

"He has to be able to accept and believe that this horrible chapter of his life is finally over. Be patient but don't treat him as if he were any different, as if here were in some way special."

_Oh, but he is. So very much._

"Maybe he'll eventually start to talk on his own, and it might be sooner than you'd think. Also, if he's resistant to seeking professional help, it will help if you encourage him in this area. It can be very beneficial working with an impartial third party."

_Doesn't she know it? Oh, the irony._

"How long do you think we should wait until we seek out the help of a psychiatrist?"

"Or a psychologist," Grant offers, and Kate nods her understanding. Seeking out Dr. Burke's help might have been one of the best decisions of her life. "I do suggest you try to find someone suitable as soon as possible, though. The sooner he starts-"

"-the quicker he'll recover." says Kate with tired, knowing smile, the words only too familiar. She can't help the habit as she brings a thumb towards her lips, chews on her nail while so many thoughts swirl in her head.

She can do this. She _will_ do this. Whatever it takes.

She finally looks at Grant, her usually-luminous eyes dark in the dim light of the family room.

"Thank you, Doctor. You've been a tremendous help." It's not enough, not even close, but she tries to convey all of her earnest gratitude to this man nonetheless. She knows he's done far more than just his job, he's personally invested himself in the case. That kind of dedication isn't at all that common, and she's grateful to him.

Grant only nods and they share a knowing smile. She's surprised by how comfortable she is already around this person that she met only yesterday...or was it today? She has a hard time keeping track anymore. But it doesn't feel strange; on the contrary, it's natural somehow. Two people brought together by coincidence with a common goal, no hidden agenda.

Grant receives a text then and he reads it, his forehead creasing. He clears his throat and stands abruptly. "I'm so sorry Detective, but I need to go."

"Of course."

"We'll keep him overnight, but if he feels up to it and nothing unusual happens, we should be able to discharge him by tomorrow."

Her eyebrows shoot up. _Wow, so soon?_

It feels silly, but it takes her by surprise. All of a sudden, the only thing she dreamed about for the past couple of weeks (_months_, really) feels like a task she's not sure she's cut out for. She needs to be the one making tough decisions and shouldering the responsibility for his care, his wellbeing and _shit_, what is wrong with her? She was about to marry him, for better or worse, and he is alive and he smiled at her today. He's trying _so hard_ just for her, for his daughter and mother.

She wants it, so much, to have him home under her own scrutinizing eye, but it also scares her. What if she doesn't live up to the expectations?

It's far too early to engage in such thoughts, though. She stands and offers her hand to Grant to thank him one more time.

"You're very welcome, Detective." He's in a hurry now, but he still takes a moment to give her his full attention before he departs. "Just remember. Take it easy and give it time. It'll work out, you'll see."

* * *

She's on her way back to Castle's room when she notices the lines in the pattern of the hospital linoleum go a little fuzzy around the edges, and the floor under her feet tilts precariously. She _just_ makes it down the hall to his room before she has to press her back to the pale corridor wall, her hands falling to her knees as she bends forward and breathes deeply, in through her nose, out through her mouth. It takes a moment for her to center herself again, but the world finally stops spinning, her feet a little more stable on the ground. The officer standing guard at his door just across the hall looks at her funny, but she doesn't give a damn.

She gives herself a moment, just standing there, supported by the wall, and concentrates on getting herself under control.

When's the last time she'd eaten anything? She had coffee in the morning, and then there was lunch and the sandwiches Alexis brought from the hospital cafeteria, but she quickly lost her appetite once she saw how Castle wolfed down his own food, picking up even the last tiniest crumb so it wouldn't go to waste. So no, she hasn't eaten much since...well, yesterday? Maybe lunch? And even that would have earned her an eye roll from Castle if she tried to sell it to him as a proper meal.

She needs to eat. And she needs sleep. Lots of sleep. The last couple of months – she hasn't really slept well, if at all. And since yesterday, she hasn't gotten any rest. She knows that she needs to take better care of herself if she hopes to take proper care of Castle.

The nausea and dizziness subside at last and Beckett straightens up, stretching her back and catching the officer eyeing her suspiciously. She shoots him a look that makes him squirm and shrink before he looks away. _Good_.

She'll go see Castle and once he falls asleep, she'll do some online searches, make a few arrangements and then hopefully grab a couple of hours of sleep on that ratty recliner in his room.

It's the best plan she can come up with right now.

* * *

_A/N: I won't lie. Feedback does make me happy. So if you feel up to it, please feel welcome to leave some._


	7. Chapter 7

_****__Enjoy the Silence_

* * *

_A/N: My awesome beta told me this was so far her favorite chapter. I must admit, I am rather fond of it too. Am curious to know what you guys will say. :) Have a good read._

* * *

Chapter 7

"C'mon dad, just write down what you want. I promise to get you literally _anything_ you want, you just have to let me know what it is."

Castle grows tense hearing Alexis' words, the impatient tone of voice, and he grips the pencil his daughter has pushed into his hands so tightly, his knuckles blanch under the pressure.

_Grant was right_, Kate thinks as she observes the scene gloomily from her post at the window. There's something about writing that he's resisting; she can see it in the rigid set of his shoulders and the tightness of his jaw. Whatever it is, she would bet her right arm he won't write a single line, for some reason won't write any more than he'll speak.

The light from the window illuminating her is slightly dimmed by the half-drawn shades – his eyes still haven't completely adjusted – and with her arms crossed in front of her, she tries everything in her power to look as casual as possible, in spite of feeling anything but. She feels like she can't intervene, can't really walk that fine line between father and daughter acting as a judge or as a defender, because neither is her role.

She sees the agony in Castle's eyes, sees that this is more than just an inexplicable stubborn streak dictating his behavior, despite his attempts to sell it as such to his mother and daughter. She's been on the verge of interrupting them twice, her fingers itching with an urge to help, to shield, protect and nurture, all on Castle's behalf, but this is his daughter, and she has the same right, if not more, to approach him – his _condition_ – in any way she sees fit.

The fierce redhead had thought it a good idea, a shot worth trying. Kate didn't, not really. But she couldn't exactly say no; she felt that she had no right to make those kinds of sweeping decisions for him. And as recent weeks have painfully proven to her, Alexis's direct approach can be so much more effective than her own sometimes. They are more alike, father and daughter, than either of them even realize. So if Alexis thinks that Castle might need a more forceful push-

The pencil snaps into pieces then, the wood unable to withstand the strength of Castle's thumbs.

"Dad!" Alexis cries with poorly disguised reproach. She's more surprised than upset, but the sadness and shame written all over Castle's face as he mutely looks at his daughter are enough to break Kate from her forced stupor, unwilling to be a bystander to this any longer.

"Alexis," she cuts in, her voice unnaturally high and more tense than she would like, probably louder than the situation requires too. "Why don't you just go and grab a couple of things you know your father likes and surprise him. Then he can choose for himself, how does that sound?"

It comes out as a casual suggestion, but they both know that's not really the point here, and Castle is too smart for his own good not to realize it, too. Beckett and Alexis exchange a long, loaded look, and to Beckett's great relief, Alexis quickly relents, giving a tiny nod without any further argument.

"Okay," she says meekly. "Anything for the two of you? Kate, Gram?" Such a sweet girl.

Beckett's about to decline, her stomach still in knots after having to watch Castle squirm and sweat for the last few minutes, trying to weasel his way out of having to write down his order. But then she remembers the bout of weakness she experienced only an hour ago in the hall, and she throws Alexis a grateful look for thinking of her.

"Actually, yeah. Could you bring me something to eat? I haven't had lunch yet." She winces at her choice of words, instantly wishing she could take them back. She deliberately doesn't look at Castle, aware of the disapproval that she would probably find there since it's already after four in the afternoon. "Oh, and coffee would be great, too," she adds.

"You'll need a hand with all of that, darling. I'll come with you," offers Martha, taking Alexis by the shoulders and steering the still slightly dejected girl towards the door.

Finally alone, the room quickly falls into a less strained silence. Castle's shoulders visibly sag in relief even as he won't meet her eyes, a little boy lost, and the sight makes Beckett's heart clench with sorrow.

She walks to his side and lifts her hand to gently scratch across his cropped scalp, hoping the gesture feels just as familiar, just as soothing as it used to be when she gently caressed her fingers through his rich, dark hair. He lets out a shaky breath and leans into her touch as his eyes find hers and there is so much torment and misery in the crisp blue that it guts her.

"Hey," she whispers, desperately wanting to say the right thing but knowing that words are his forte, and right now, he has none. She leans down and presses a lingering kiss to the top of his head, her hand cradling his skull affectionately against her body. "It's going to be okay."

He shuts his eyes and nuzzles into her belly, either resting there, or maybe hiding; possibly both. It forces her to stand at an odd angle and eventually, she has to pull back, plopping heavily onto the mattress beside his hip.

Her eyes fall on the broken pencil, the pieces still tightly clutched in his hands and she reaches out, gently untangles his fingers, and takes the fragments of wood away from him, replacing them with her hands instead. He intertwines them quickly and she watches as their fingers caress, the gesture intimate and calming.

She feels a deep, desperate need to reassure him, to say something that will ease his mind in some way, even just a little. Anything, really. But she's fresh out of words, and…God, she ought to say _something_. He _needs_ her to say something.

A memory, a distant one, surfaces in her mind.

_"Say something reassuring."_

_"There are thousands of break-ins in New York City every year."_

He always knew what to say to make her feel better, make her feel safe. She needs to be that kind of person for him, too. She _wants_ to be that person.

"You…" she starts, clears her throat before she continues, "You don't have to talk. Or write. Nobody is going to force you anymore, okay? That's a promise."

And thank God, it _is_ the right thing to say, because his entire posture relaxes, his body sinking into the mattress, her words the absolution he seems to have been seeking. It momentarily takes her aback, how so little reassurance could bring so much relief.

"But Castle," she continues, waiting until he meets her eyes again. "Babe, we need to find a way for you to communicate with us, other than just body language. We need to find..._something_ that will allow us to know what's going on in that restless mind of yours," she says, running her fingers over his head again, trying to gentle her words with her touch. "We need to know what's happening here," she says, splaying her hand wide over his chest, right over his heart, before carefully scratching the nails of her other hand over his shaven head and then she lightly tapping a finger to his skull for emphasis, "and here as well." Her fingers trickle lower, seizing the earlobe on the uninjured side of his head, playfully tugging at the flesh. The familiar gesture lures a tiny but genuine smile from him, finally a sign that he sees her attempt for what it is, a way to find a solution to a difficult situation – together – rather than trying to sweet-talk him into submission. She decides to carefully push her advantage.

"Nodding and hand gestures can only take us so far. It's enough for now, but what if something comes up? Something important that can't be communicated through body language alone? What if you need to tell us something and you just don't have a way to accomplish that?" She bites her lip, contemplates him. She doesn't like pushing him any more than she liked watching Alexis doing it, but there must be a way to make him understand. They absolutely _have to_ find a way for him to communicate with them.

"So I'm not saying that you have to do something you don't want to do. Absolutely not. But, we need to come up with a way of communication that's acceptable and comfortable for all of us, alright? I'm not saying right now, not even today or tomorrow, but soon, okay? Soon," she finishes, trying to soften the blow of her words with a lasting kiss against the top of his head, just to reassure him that she is not his enemy here. And it must be working too, because she can already see it in the blue of his eyes when she draws back to look at him again, the cogs and wheels in his head spinning rapidly.

It makes her smile, bright and happy, makes her so unbelievably proud. Because it's enough; it's a result. Her words are sinking in, getting to him. He's listening.

She cradles his jaw, drawing gentle circles over the shadows under his eyes, her fingers mapping his face, painting a line down his nose, re-familiarizing themselves with his shape. Her hand stops just over the strip of gauze covering the hole in his head and it hits her all over again. _Holy shit…_they drilled a hole into his skull. She just can't wrap her head around this one.

One hand squeezes into a tight fist then, her lips pursing. Of all the people in the world, Castle didn't deserve this. On the other hand, isn't she being a hypocrite? Isn't that _exactly_ what her job is about? Finding justice for those who didn't deserve their fate?

She forces her muscles to relax again and stays silent, content to simply observe him for now. She touches his face, relishing the fact that she has the liberty to do so as much as she pleases now, running her fingers over his features again and again. The action seems to bring the same amount of comfort to her as it does to him.

He observes her too, his eyes now more alert than she's seen them since he was returned to them– Christ, _was it only yesterday_?

He lifts his hand, the gesture a mirror of hers. His is shaky and his movements are slightly uncoordinated, his touch a little heavy-handed at first where it lands at her cheek. The skin of his fingers is dry and scratchy, but her response is instinctive as she curls into his touch, her eyes falling shut because it just feels _so good_.

His index finger traces the shadows circling her own eyes then, a testament of far too many nights spent tossing and turning, or not even attempting to sleep at all. His eyes are so piercing, so perceptive as he searches her face, quickly turning the tables on her visual examination of him as he takes in her appearance now. She can see that he's already figured her out, already knows all of her tells. And still, the intensity in his eyes draws the truth from her.

"Haven't gotten much sleep lately." She gives him a little self-deprecating shrug, a tight smile that never quite reaches her eyes as she tries to downplay it as much as she can.

His hand drops from her face and slides lower, exploring the curve of her shoulder, the length of her arm. It comes to a stop at her wrist, his thumb and forefinger able to completely encircle the thin mass of bone and blood and paper-thin skin and...okay, so she dropped a few pounds. It was probably more than she could have afforded to lose, but it's not like she was purposefully starving herself. The stress, the grief, the frustration and fear, her all-consuming quest to find him and bring him home…it took a toll on her, killing her appetite and keeping her awake at night. But even in spite of her rationalizations, her eyes shy away from him in what feels like shame for not taking better care of herself.

He pulls on her wrist and she lets him have it, starring a hole into his bedding, but he surprises her when he presses a soft kiss there, low on the inside of her palm, his lips dry and chapped yet so tender and warm. They gaze at each other in silence, so much understanding passing between them despite the sea of unknown they find themselves in, and it takes everything in her to put a lid on the emotions that threaten to turn her into a weeping, broken mess.

He releases her hand after a while, fatigue settling over his features, and she is about to tell him to get some rest when suddenly, he's tugging at her sleeve, hunting for her attention again. He lets go of her in order to splay his fingers wide over the covers, pretending to play an invisible piano, his fingers running over the keys and playing some melody only he can hear. But…it's not really a piano, is it? His gestures finally begin to make sense.

She jolts with the realization, energy cracking in the air between them as she jumps to her feet and scurries over to her bag laying forgotten on the recliner. Holy shit, could it be really _that_ simple?

"I don't have your laptop on me, but I've got my iPad. I wanted to do some research and-" her voice trails off her as she rummages impatiently through the bag, the excitement staining her cheeks crimson. Her hands push aside the candy wrappers and used tissues, lip balm and a magazine or two she grabbed from home just in case he had felt like reading. Finally, in the depths of the suddenly bottomless bag, she finds the poor, battered iPad he gave her last Christmas and extracts it from the tangled clutches of her phone's power cord. She blows on the surface in a feeble attempt to clean the crumbs and dust off its screen, and blushes lightly when she turns back and catches the half-amazed, half-amused look on Castle's face. He always told her that when it came to her bag, she was a surprisingly messy packrat. Guess he was right.

She hurries back to him and offers him the device, watching with baited breath as his fingers skillfully unlock the screen and open the notes application. He looks so _eager_, and she doesn't really understand it, can't fully comprehend why he's willing to type and not write, but she's certainly not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

She shakes her head. _Why hadn't they thought of this before?_

The moment the application loads and the keyboard appears, they both freeze for a moment, their breaths held in unison, like they're on the brink of some great discovery. He seems momentary taken aback by the possibilities, all of the choices at his disposal, overwhelmed by everything he could say to her first.

She forces her excitement down a notch and takes a measured breath while she steps closer to the head of the bed, right there with him. She brings an arm around his shoulders, her hand squeezing in encouragement.

He lifts his head, eyes holding hers for a fraction of a second, shiny and oh-so determined, before he finally starts to type, his first words in God knows how long.

_I missed you every single day._

* * *

_A/N: Thoughts? :)_


	8. Chapter 8

_****__Enjoy the Silence_

* * *

_A/N: Thank you all who has been so kind and sweet to read, as well to those we took the time to review. Especially those ones who left anonymous reviews and I couldn't get back to. Still, just so you know, your reviews are all read and very much appreciated and cherished, some of them extremely personal and touching (quite a few regarding your own experience with mutism). You are all wonderful. As is my beta, Meg. Thanks, hon.  
_

* * *

Chapter 8

The first thing that greets Alexis and Martha when they return with the food is the big fat _SORRY_ written across the tablet resting against his chest, partly hiding a sheepish-looking Castle while a positively beaming Kate stands by his shoulder.

Alexis closes the distance in two quick strides, dropping the food at the foot of the bed in favor of enveloping her dad in a tight hug that makes him wince but return the gesture just as fiercely. "I'm sorry too, daddy," she whispers.

Martha's eyes are way too shiny when she exchanges a grateful, tender look with Kate, mouthing a silent _thank you_ toward her almost-daughter-in-law.

* * *

They eat and talk and type, Castle orienting himself fairly quickly to using the tablet to communicate, rapidly changing between tapping his fingers over the tablet and throwing food into his mouth. It's almost…miraculous, the change in him, to this casual, relaxed man. How he suddenly has so much to say, asking his daughter and mother questions that in essence, qualify as small talk, but Kate sees them for what they are: a way to fill in the blanks, subtly extracting information of what and how his family has been doing in his absence, trying to make up for the lost time. It also serves as a wonderful way to cheer up Alexis, his outburst from earlier still weighing heavily on his conscience. Yet, it feels so wonderful, so _normal._ It feels like they truly have him back.

She's not naïve, of course; she knows that it's not that simple. Finding a method for him to communicate with them isn't going to make everything miraculously okay, but for the time being, Kate decides she will take what she can get, finding solace and happiness in all the many little things.

She sits in a chair at the side of his bed, her feet propped up on the metal railing, her arms resting on her knees as she slowly sips her coffee. Her eyes never leave him, so content to have this chance to quietly observe him, thankful for the distraction Martha and Alexis offer.

She sometimes wishes she could be more like that, more extroverted and social and spontaneous, and watching the family interact, she can secretly observe the joy and comfort it seems to give Castle. But at the same time, she notices the amount of strain it puts on him as he tries to humor them, all three Castles trying so hard to pretend this is nothing more than a routine hospital visit resulting from some silly sports accident. And at those moments, Kate is glad she doesn't have to be a part of it too.

Castle has just finished his second chocolate chip muffin, right after practically inhaling a ham and cheese sandwich, and is just about to grab for a third one, all the while listening to his twittering daughter filling him in on the courses she's taking this fall, when Kate reluctantly grabs his wrist as he moves in on the muffin and stops him from taking another bite.

"Maybe you should slow down a little bit," she offers. Her voice is quiet, only for him to hear as Alexis continues to talk, oblivious. She takes the muffin away and pushes her fingers into his hand instead, the gesture meant as an apology because she truly hates to do this, hates to be the voice of reason and deny him _anything_ at this point, least of all food. But Grant had warned them that his stomach has shrunken, has forgotten how to deal with large quantities of food, and that for a while, he'll have to eat slowly and moderately or risk making himself ill.

He doesn't protest, merely looks at her somewhat sheepishly when it hits him what she must be getting at. And despite the cuts and bruises, despite his hollowed-out cheeks, the circles under his eyes, and his hair cropped short, the smile he gives her in response makes her stomach quiver with barely repressed need.

When Alexis turns to speak to Martha, she takes the opportunity to lean in and press a lingering kiss to his lips, just because she can; for he is here, alive, and still so much full of life and lightness, in spite of everything that's been done to him. Kate feels she could cry for days on end just for how thankful she is that this person is still so very much _himself._

She continues to hold his hand when they break apart and she turns her attention back to the still twittering Alexis, pretending she doesn't feel his eyes on her. Because she knows, even as he listens to his daughter and writes some words here and there on the screen in response, his attention strays back to Kate every time.

It's not long before his eyes start to droop again, the long afternoon taking a toll on him. Alexis catches on pretty quickly, gradually lowering her voice, literally lulling her dad back to sleep, exchanging a sly smile with Kate that looks painfully like her father's as she shrugs her shoulders and lets out a short huff that stretches Kate's lips into a wide smile.

She suddenly realizes how very content she is, just sitting here, coffee in one hand and Castle's fingers in the other, watching him sleep. And then a yawn of her own surprises her, causing Martha to give her a knowing, slightly disapproving look.

"You should get some rest too, dear. God only knows when's the last time that you actually slept." His mother's eyes are so piercing, so _knowing_, that Beckett has to look away and hide the truth behind the falling curtain of her hair.

"I will, Martha," she replies. "I promise." _Just…not right now_, she adds to herself, still firmly squeezing Castle's fingers.

Martha – the cunning woman she is – must read into her mind, because she continues in an almost-reprimanding voice, "I hope you mean soon, Katherine." Redness creeps up Kate's neck and cheeks, for she hasn't been scolded that way since…well, since her own mother did it.

She raises her eyes to Martha, this incredible woman who has never been anything but warm and welcoming towards her, so supportive, and she has no other choice but to smile and give a slight nod, giving in. "Soon," she promises quietly.

* * *

She floats in darkness, even as something crawls up her arm and seizes her bicep, then lands on her shoulder, shaking her.

"Beckett? Hey Beckett, wake up." She jerks awake, sits bolt upright, disoriented, sweaty and slightly nauseous.

"Castle…?" She mumbles her first conscious thought – always her first and last thought these days – but the hand is already easing her back, Esposito's voice speaking soothingly.

"He's okay. Sleeping."

Her vision clears, her eyes finally focusing on the shadowed face before her.

"Sorry to wake you," he says apologetically, "but we need to talk." There's something tight in his voice as he waits her out, allowing her to find her bearings. "Take your time. I'll wait for you outside." She nods, rubbing her face and smoothing her disheveled hair behind her ears as she sleepily looks around.

She had fallen asleep on the narrow recliner in the corner of Castle's room. Darkness has already fallen behind the half-closed blinds, so she must have been asleep for at least a couple of hours. She looks down at her father's watch and damn, it's already nearly nine. Visiting hours will be ending soon, but Alexis is still sitting in an armchair under the window, her feet pulled up as she tries to catch as much light as she can from the weak bedside lamp that she angled toward her book. She gives Kate a soft smile that for some reason makes her run her fingers through her hair self-consciously and smooth the creases from her shirt.

"I sent Gram home." Alexis whispers quietly to her as Kate finally stands up, walking closer to the bed. "It was getting late and there's nowhere for her to really stretch out and be comfortable, but she'll be back in the morning. I persuaded the nurses to let us stay though, at least a little while longer."

Kate gives her wide smile for that. If the girl is even half as charming and persuasive as her father, she's sure Alexis had no problems whatsoever bending the hospital stuff to her will, and it makes her oddly proud of the girl. She also doesn't miss the fact that Alexis obtained permission for both of them to remain. "Thank you," she murmurs.

"He was up a while ago, when the doc came in to check up on him and then when the nurse came to change his IV," Alexis continues her update. "He also gave me strict orders to let you sleep," she adds with an amused grin. "He even used capital letters, so I didn't dare disobey him, you see," she says with pursed lips to stop herself from giggling, mirth sparkling in her eyes.

Kate just nods, a matching grin appearing on her face as she regards Alexis. She steps closer to Castle's shoulder, can't help but run a hand over the curve of his head affectionately.

"I hate to interrupt," Alexis asks timidly, "but isn't Detective Esposito waiting outside for you?"

"Oh, damn! Right."

She presses a soft kiss to Castle's forehead before she leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

* * *

"Hey Espo, what's u-" She stops mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing suspiciously when she takes in not just Esposito, but Ryan as well along with a third man she doesn't know, but he has FBI written all over him and her stomach drops.

"Hey, Beckett," murmurs Ryan, clearly uncomfortable. There's none of the usual cheerfulness in his voice, only gravity and fatigue. "Is there someplace we can talk in private?"

She silently nods, leading them as if on autopilot to the only place she knows in this facility outside of Castle's room. They don't speak as they're walking, not yet, and she's glad, something telling her that she'll need to sit down for this one.

The family room is blessedly empty, and they shut the door behind them while Ryan closes the blinds. She doesn't bother pretending to be calm, not even in front of the stranger. She pours herself a cup of stale coffee – just to have something to hold – then plops right down onto the same lumpy couch from which she listened to the doctor recount all of Castle's injuries only the day before.

"So what's up?" she asks, her eyes moving from one face to the next, hating the tinge of resignation coloring her voice. She's just so damn tired.

"Detective Beckett, my name is Paul Keller and I'm the special agent assigned to your fiancé's case," the unknown man states as he steps forward and extends his hand in her direction. She takes a moment to size him up, make him squirm a bit under her silent scrutiny, for the briefest of moments basking in the malicious thought of what he might do if she actually _didn't_ take his hand, but she eventually does, gives it a short shake and quickly lets go. She's usually the one who's supportive of inter-agency cooperation, even amongst rivaling forces, but in this case, the FBI's services yielded exactly _zero_ results in the past couple of months, juggling Castle's case like a hot potato no one wanted to handle or be responsible for. Some agents even went as far as to not-so-subtly suggest that the case she was building might be nothing more than an already twice-divorced man getting cold feet on the brink of his third marriage.

So excuse her if she has reservations now, _thank you very much_.

Keller – for his own good – catches on to her hostility fairly quickly, taking a respectful step back. She looks to Esposito then, a silent question in her eyes. Her friend gives her a single nod in return.

She knows then that they did a background check on this guy and ruled him to be trustworthy; otherwise, they wouldn't have allowed him within fifty feet of this place. She also knows that the boys wouldn't have brought him here so late if it wasn't important. She might dislike the fact, but she already knows she wants and needs to hear what he has to say.

So she looks back to Keller, watches him over the rim of her cup while she takes a slow sip, enjoying the way her expression makes the man shift uncomfortably. "So how can I help you, agent Keller?" she asks at last, lowering her mug, but it's Ryan who answers, his voice tense.

"Kelly Nieman is dead. Found hanging in her holding cell this morning. Looks like a suicide."

"Bitch took the easy way out," snarls Espo.

There is a moment of silence before Beckett finally reacts, her voice utterly cold with detachment. "Good riddance."

She has nothing more to say to that information, and she definitely can't say she's sorry. The only thing she regrets is not being able to look the woman in the eye on the day she'd receive the life sentence Beckett would have worked tirelessly for. But if Neiman chose to take a shortcut? That was just as well with Beckett; she finds she isn't particularly picky about the manner in which her punishment was handed down.

"Does Tyson know?" she asks.

"Yes," answers Espo tightly.

"Good." The maliciousness in her voice even takes her by surprise. But in all honesty, she can't muster up even the slightest bit of sorrow for the life lost.

"That's actually a problem," spits Esposito, shooting her a loaded look and willing her to understand, to get over herself and see the bigger picture. Her stomach plummets when it finally clicks, the realization hitting her a second before he actually says the words aloud.

"Tyson lawyered up. He's claiming that he's innocent."

"The hell he is!" she growls indignantly. "That's ridiculous!"

"And yet," says Agent Keller, who has kept silent up until now, "technically, it _is_ possible. Likely even, if we will do nothing to prevent it."

She shoots him a dirty look, at which he – to his credit – doesn't flinch.

"That means we're going to need Mr. Castle's testimony, and we need to get it tonight." He makes the statement offhandedly, nonchalantly, as though all he wants is to borrow a book from Castle's library, even as she physically recoils at his words.

"What? Absolutely not!" she rejects immediately, shaking her head resolutely, but the agent continues as if she didn't speak at all, as if she doesn't have a say at all.

"Tyson's lawyer has already filed for his release, and is pushing for him to appear before the judge in the morning, no doubt."

"That's bullshit!" Beckett snaps, the careful, tenuous grasp on her control snapping, gone just like that. "Nobody in their right mind would approve his release!" she bellows. "He's a serial killer who can be tied to numerous murders! We've been chasing him for years!"

"That may be." Keller admits levelly, and his calmness serves to infuriate her even further, because this man has _no_ idea who Jerry Tyson really is and what he's capable of, and he sure as hell has _no_ right to speak about this matter like some kind of authority. "But we both know that you don't have a single shred of proof to back up any one of your claims, am I mistaken?"

It's like a physical blow to her chest and she practically doubles over, choking on her next breath as she gapes at the agent.

"Who the hell do you think you are…" she starts disbelievingly, even though it's already beginning to make sickening sense.

"He's right, Beckett," utters Ryan quietly. "You know he is. We have nothing. Last year, the Kelly Nieman case with the doppelganger victims? They took it all, remember?" He looks so desolate, so sorry, but it's nothing compared to the gaping emptiness spreading through her chest, a deep ache settling in her heart, because oh God, Ryan is right. They have _nothing_.

They have nothing, and Tyson knows it. That piece of human garbage _knows_ it and he's going to try to use it to walk, but hell will have to freeze over before she'll allow that man to set a single toe outside prison walls.

Her ears are ringing, her mind still reeling with it all; Castle's reappearance less than a day ago and all that's happened since then…it's almost too much. She's had no real food and even less sleep, and it comes all crashing down on her. She not sure she can keep up, but they don't even give her time, it's like they don't even care, they just keep plowing straight ahead.

"That's why we need Castle's testimony, Beckett. We need to nail that son of a bitch to the cross for what he did to Castle." Even though she knows the truth behind Espo's words, she still looks at him like he's just betrayed her, and at least he has the decency to meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I know it's an inconvenient time," Keller says then, and she laughs at that, despite the fact that there is nothing funny about his words, but it's better than bursting into tears. "But this man…he can claim anything he wants at this point. He will try to pin this on Kelly Nieman, allege that he was her victim too, make her take the fall for everything."

"But they found him, right _there_, in the same house, holding Castle hostage. The police got tipped off, identified them based on their _photos,_ for Christ's sake!" She's suddenly on her feet, the coffee spilling over the wooden table before her, her whole frame shaking with helpless rage.

"He'll say _anything_," Keller says with a resigned shake of his head, "and because there's no real evidence against him, he _will_ walk. The only thing that can keep Tyson behind bars now is your fiancé's testimony."

All fight goes out of her then, because there's nothing to fight. They're right. They're right and she knows it but it still hurts and _fuck_! They just got Castle back not even twenty-four hours ago, and only got him to "speak" to them within the last twelve. How can she ask him to relive the horrors of the past few months when it probably hasn't even fully sunk in for him that it's over? That he's safe now? What might this do to him?

She buries her hands in her hair, grabbing a handful in each fist. There's a long pause, when suddenly the couch next to her dips, a hand coming to rest on her knee.

"Listen Beckett," Esposito says softly, so very close and yet, she can barely hear him, "we don't need much. Just enough to keep him behind bars so we can build a case and he can't disappear into thin air again. Castle doesn't have to…go into every detail, not right now. Just give us enough to pin Jerry Fucking Tyson's ugly face to his abduction and imprisonment. Okay? The judge will go with that, we make sure of it, but he'll need _something_." He squeezes her knee before dropping his hand. "Everyone here is on your side Beckett, Castle's too, but we need some legal basis to keep that son of a bitch in jail."

"How?" She whispers miserably, her voice shaking. "He can't even s_peak_…"

"But he can write, right?" asks Espo, and the betrayal in her eyes is real this time, because of all the people present, _he_ must know what it must cost Castle, what kind of things must have been done to him in order to reduce him to using a fucking iPad to communicate with the people he loves.

"It won't take long. He just needs to tie the man who's in FBI custody to the man who held him prisoner. He can exclude any testimony about Nieman altogether right now, if that helps," Ryan offers, and when she looks at him despairingly, he holds her gaze, his own discomfort mirroring hers, and his eyes are so blue, they remind her of another set of impossibly blue eyes.

_Fuck_! She doesn't want to do this, not at all, but she's beginning to see that they have no other choice. And yet, she is so scared. Scared of the price Castle will have to pay.

* * *

_A/N: Yeah, well. I know._


	9. Chapter 9

_**Enjoy the Silence**_

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_A/N: Thank you all who took the time to read as well as those who reviewed. Your support is very much cherished. As well as that of my dear beta Meg.  
_

* * *

Chapter 9

He doesn't want her present while he gives his testimony. Even worse, he asks the boys to _stay_. And maybe being upset about that makes her petty, but fuck, it still hurts.

_She_ is his partner. _She_ is his fiancée. And maybe that's exactly the problem, but it still feels like a punch to her gut. She knows she shouldn't take it personally, knows that she would probably do exactly the same thing if their roles were reversed, but she wants to be there. She wants to _help_, in any capacity she can; she wants to offer comfort and support and love.

Kate can't stop thinking about the frightened, nearly-panicked look in his eyes even as he desperately tried to downplay it, act as if it was no big deal to talk about what happened to him during his captivity. God, but this is so much more than a big deal for him; it's huge. And yet, she has to stay outside. The whole time, she tells herself that the least she can do is to respect his wishes.

* * *

It's after ten o'clock and no matter how lenient they are about the late hour and the presence of Espo, Ryan and Keller in Castle's room, the nurses are adamant that Alexis go home and get some rest. The only thing keeping Kate here is her badge, the fact that she is _one of them_, even though right now she doesn't feel like it, not really. Not when she can't be in that room, be a part of it, either as a girlfriend or as a partner. It sucks, and she's tired. So very, very tired.

Beckett closes her eyes then and leans her head back against the wall. She sits cross-legged on the ground outside his door, her ass stiff, cold and aching. The officer standing guard offered her his chair, but she declined.

She wants to go home and sleep for days. She wishes she could take Castle and just _go home_, the two of them crawling into their huge, luxurious bed together, huddling close and poking fun at each other as he hogs the covers and she the pillows. They could sleep until - for once - they woke naturally; no alarm, no murder, no calls and no nightmares. Just a normal couple, enjoying a lazy, carefree Saturday at home. Yeah, that sounds like a dream to her right about now.

It takes them a little over an hour to finish; so much for needing only a short time to obtain his testimony. At one point, Ryan hurries out of the room with a laptop under his arm, his face pale and his eyes not meeting hers. He informs her that they're nearly finished, he only needs to find a place to print his statement now, and then he high-tails it to the nurse's station before she can ask any questions.

It's another twenty minutes after Ryan returns to his room before they finally exit, all three of them. Twenty minutes to get a single signature. Her stomach churns with acid at the thought of what it took for Castle to do that.

They look gloomy, their faces tight. Ryan's eyes are still evasive, while Espo's are stormy with anger. As for Keller...well, she doesn't really give a damn about Keller.

She rises quickly and grabs Espo's arm, pulls him to the side before they get the chance to make their escape. She knows that what she is about to do is, if not strictly against the law, at the very least a gross ethical violation, but she'll be damned if she's going to stand by and be kept in the dark while they're all privy to this information.

"Espo, I need a copy of that testimony," she utters quietly, her voice low enough that the other men won't hear. She doesn't even pretend to care about the fact that what she's asking will put him into a difficult position. She doesn't even really ask; she _demands_.

He gives her a hard look, but then his eyes soften and damn, that look is even worse. "You know I can't, Beckett."

"The hell you can't!" she spits, immediately lowering her voice again when she notices Keller eyeing them closely, her hand tightening on his jacket. "Espo, I _need_ to see it. You know I do." She's very close to begging now. She doesn't care.

"I understand Beckett. I truly do. But my hands are tied."

She narrows her eyes at him, tries another tactic. "Don't give me that bullshit! We both know that when it comes to breaking the rules, you could give lectures on the subject." It doesn't even make him blink; he merely regards her with that pitying look again and she could kick him in the balls for it.

"Beckett," he says levelly, "I won't break his trust. You of all people know where my loyalties lie. Don't make me pick between the two of you." And fuck, he's right and he's being a good friend, but God damn it, when did he become all noble like that?

"Espo," she warns, because tears are gathering now, threatening to fall from her eyes.

"He'll tell you himself, in his own time," he tells her, his voice taking a sympathetic, brotherly tone. "You can't be a cop with him right now, Beckett. He needs you to go in there and be his fiancée." A single tear escapes at his words, but she wipes it viciously from her face.

"I could order you," she threatens half-heartedly, as if that tactic has ever been successful with the Latino detective.

"Yeah, you could." He replies calmly, but they both know she's bluffing, know that the same loyalty that prohibits him from betraying Castle's trust will keep her from pushing the issue any further with Esposito. No matter how much she wants to read Castle's testimony, she won't go about it that way. She hangs her head and has to breathe through the disappointment, the impotency she feels. How the hell is she supposed to help him if she doesn't _know_? Why are they boys allowed to know but not her?

"It's all gonna be okay, Beckett. I promise." He squeezes her bicep. "He _will_ tell you, but it's gotta be on his own terms. The only reason he wanted to have us there is because we're his friends, and he knows he can trust us with what he disclosed, but at the same time, we aren't too close. What he went through, Kate…he just wanted to spare you that, the same way he would have done with his mother or daughter. He wanted you out here because you're his _family_, not because he doesn't care."

She nods and turns from him, her throat filled with a lump that refuses to be swallowed down.

"We're headed to a meeting with the prosecutor and the judge to ensure that son of a bitch Tyson never sees the light of the day again, okay? Just sit tight," he says, giving her a single pat on the back, then jogging away to join an impatient Keller waiting with Ryan at the end of the corridor.

She stays rooted to the spot, staring a hole into Castle's door. Tomorrow, one of the nurses said earlier. They're going to let him come home tomorrow. One more night spent apart and then she'll have him all to herself. Well, along with his daughter and mother, but they'll finally be left alone, as a family.

She takes a deep breath and gulps it all down; the injustice, her own insecurities, all of it. Keep moving forward, not back, that's what Burke always said to her. Well, he'll have to create a whole new file for her and the therapy she's going to need after this.

She should go home and shower – she probably smells by now – and maybe have something to eat, get a proper night's sleep. She needs to prepare the loft, stock the kitchen, pack him a bag with clothes he can wear for the journey home, talk with Alexis and Martha. Make a plan.

But first…first she has to see him one more time before she leaves for the night. She looks around the corridor, but there's nobody around; no narrow-eyed, disapproving nurse to send her home, only the single lonely officer standing guard outside his room, deliberately looking away as she slips into Castle's room.

The overhead light is off, the room bathed in silence. The monitors are off now, too; there's no need for them anymore, the nurse said earlier. Doctor's orders. The only source of light is the bedside lamp Alexis was using to read by earlier. The beam of light is directed away from the bed, towards the armchair his daughter occupied the majority of the day, but his face is turned towards it as he's lying on his side with his back facing her.

She hesitates, because if he's already asleep, she definitely doesn't want to wake him, but her selfish urge to be near him is stronger than her rational mind. "Castle?" she whispers ever so gently into the silence. "You asleep, babe?"

He doesn't stir, so Kate circles the bed, wanting to look into his face one more time, press a kiss to his forehead in farewell until tomorrow. But when she comes closer and her eyes fall on his shadowed face, her breath stops in her lungs at the sight of his eyes shut tightly, his whole face painfully contorted into a grimace.

"Rick?" she whispers, dread running down her spine as she rushes closer.

His shoulders shake then, his face screwing up even further as his whole posture slips, the entire mountain of his body wracked with suppressed sobs that have no vocal release, not a single cry making it past his tightly closed lips, and her heart shatters.

She sinks onto the mattress beside him, her arms shooting towards him but hesitating momentarily, because God, what can she do? What if she makes it worse? But she certainly can't do _nothing_ in the face of his anguish. She slides her arms around his neck, brings her face close to his, her forehead resting high against his own, her lips falling just against the tip of his nose.

She breathes his name over and over, cradling him close when suddenly he's grabbing for her, eager and urgent, clutching fistfuls of her hair, unknowingly pulling a couple of strands from her scalp in his attempt to bring her closer, soak himself in her presence.

It completely undoes her, the depths of his neediness, his desolation, and she holds him tightly to her body in an attempt to bring him any amount of solace. He clings to her and she lets him, cradles his skull in her hands, whispering words of love and comfort into the shell of his ear, anything and everything she thinks he might need to hear right now. They both need to hear it.

She would give anything to make it right. _Anything_. But this is the best she can do.

She never thought she'd be saying this, but about fifteen minutes later, she can state that Richard Castle has literally cried himself to sleep. She watches over his slumber, unwilling as well as physically unable to leave his embrace until a rather cranky night nurse comes to check up on him and upon finding her still lurking there, asks Kate to return during visiting hours.

She arrives home just after midnight, the loft dark and quiet, Martha and Alexis most likely in their beds already. Only a day ago, she thought she might never see him again. She has him back now, but she has no idea in what state, in what capacity, and she's scared out of her mind that she can't be who he needs her to be.

Ten weeks ago, she was eager to be his wife.

Nothing has changed. She still wants that, so very much. She only hopes that she can be enough.

Utterly emotionally spent and physically beyond tired, she never makes it into the shower; she merely crawls into the vast emptiness of their bed, clothes and all, taking her own turn in crying herself to sleep.

* * *

_A/N: I would love to hear your thoughts. So don't hesitate to share them._


	10. Chapter 10

**_Enjoy the Silence_**

* * *

**PART II**

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"_I wanted to scream as I stood there, my toes hanging over the edge of the dock. I wanted to let a gut-wrenching howl rip from my disfigured throat toward those clouded skies. I wanted to say every swear word my mother had ever thought me not to say. I would have settled for a cut-off whimper, just as long as some kind of sound came from my lips."__  
__―Keary Taylor, What I didn't say_

* * *

Chapter 10

He has to fold the waistband of his jeans over twice so they won't slip down past his hips, and the hoodie feels like he could drown in it, huge in a way he can't remember it being before. He always thought this particular piece of clothing had a rather snug fit. Not anymore.

He stands in the middle of the entryway, looking around the loft, and sighs. _He's home. Finally_.

The place looks so…normal. So absolutely mundane, like it's any other day. He doesn't know what he expected, really. That if their lives have been turned upside down, everything else would be screwed up too?

But here he is, his surroundings as neat and familiar and welcoming as ever. Even the air smells like home, like late night cooking, leather and wine, pancakes and family.

Kate crowds his back, the warmth of her palm resting low on his back seeping through the thick material of his jeans, calming him slightly. The hand pushes a little then, making him step a little further inside, and the door closes with a quiet finality behind them. It's not a bad thing. He's finally feeling safe. Somewhat.

He lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, allows his shoulders to sag in relief. His daughter is already in the kitchen, fetching herself a drink, his Mother having quietly disappeared upstairs for an alleged change of clothes.

Only Kate remains standing with him in the hall, and she appears almost as anxious as he feels. She'd been nervous and fidgety the whole drive from the hospital, her uneasiness rolling off of her in powerful waves.

"Come inside, babe," she utters quietly, nudging him a little further into the loft.

_Babe_. She's called him that a lot in the past couple of days. Not that he isn't used to it, or that he doesn't appreciate or enjoyit, because he does, very much so. But the frequency with which she uses it tells him more about her level of anxiety than she must realize.

"You want to eat something? Or take a shower first? If you're tired, you can take a nap." She's so eager to please him, and he watches her clasp her fingers together in front of her body, looking unsure and still so very apprehensive.

He finally allows himself to really think about the offered choices; so many possibilities, so much freedom. He doesn't know what to do with it to be honest, so he just stands there like a fool, silently gaping at her, looking for a response that doesn't come.

"Hey, dad. Here, take this."

He turns his head, reaches out in time to catch the bottle of water Alexis is offering him. "How about you take a shower first?" his daughter suggests, crinkling her nose at him, feigning a bad odor emanating from him and he has to smile, grateful for his goofy daughter. "We can order the pizza in the meantime and then get all comfortable on the couch, how does that sound?"

That sounds…well, heavenly, to be honest, and he nods gratefully. He finally manages to unglue his feet from the ground, walking in the direction of his bedroom.

He's home, yet he feels oddly like a stranger. He tries to shake off the feeling, but it sticks to his skin along with the dirt and grime and blood that he didn't get a chance to wash off while in the hospital.

The bedroom is neat and tidy, the bed beautifully made. He wonders when on earth did Kate find the time to straighten the place up, but then he notices the way the sheets are tucked in at the corners, and he easily recognizes the distinctive touch of Maria, his housekeeper.

Duh.

It's not like Kate to let other people clean up her personal space; he spent weeks persuading her that Maria wasn't a stranger but a valued, long-time employee, and a very discreet and efficient one at that. His wary fiancée finally relented, although she still tried to avoid Maria's involvement in their bedroom when at all possible. Today, however, she must have been in a hurry and wanted the place clean and ready when they came home; another concession on her part for his benefit. There's nothing easy about the circumstances they found themselves in, and she spent every free minute in the hospital with him. She must be exhausted, but at least she asked for help, so he decides to consider it a small victory. He walks to the foot of the bed, his fingers absentmindedly trailing over the soft bedcovers.

"You need anything?"

Her voice is soft and yet he jumps in surprise. He turns to find Kate standing in the doorway, observing him with a concerned frown as she pulls her jacket off of her shoulders, hanging it in the closet.

He shakes his head, knowing that for the forseeable future, she'll constantly be watching him out of the corner of her eye. He forces his body into a more relaxed state, willing himself to look a little less out-of-sorts, because he knows how he must appear right now; this brooding, contemplative silence is nothing like his usual self. He doesn't want to make her worry about him even further…God knows she already has enough on her plate as it is.

He walks to his dresser and pulls a drawer open to retrieve fresh underwear and something to wear, quickly deciding on a pair of his favorite sweats and a simple black T-shirt. They might be a bit loose now, but no matter; he'll just cinch the drawstrings a bit tighter.

He turns back to the bed, still pondering his unappealing weight loss, only to find Kate still observing him intently; staring at him really, so obviously concerned and looking about as lost and displaced as himself.

He lets his hands fall to his sides with a deep, soundless sigh, walking around the bed and pulling her into his arms without a second thought, the sight of her breaking his heart. She feels so small, so unsure and fragile, all of her pretense of a tough exterior gone.

He wants to tell her – reassure her – that it's all going to be fine, but how can he? _How,_ when he's unable to even speak the mere words? So he pulls her closer instead, pushes a lingering kiss against the crown of her head, unashamedly breathing in her lovely, familiar smell.

She practically melts against him, sneaking her arms around his torso and carefully pulling him close, and he'll be damned if he gives away how his ribs are killing him, even at such a light touch. They stay like that for quite a while, silently wrapped around each other, but for once, the room is filled with a comfortable, intimate quietness.

When they finally pull apart, the watery smile she gives him nearly kills him on the spot, but she's already moving away to leave the room and give him some privacy. He's got nothing else left but to watch her go, his arms feeling pathetically empty, so he grabs his clothes and walks to the bathroom with intent. Time to get cleaned up.

"Holler if you need anything, 'kay?" she calls after him, and her cheeks stain a lovely shade of red when he looks back at her with a curious expression and the meaning behind her words finally hits home. He waits her out with amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth as she hastily adds, "Or, you know, bang on the wall…or something."

His smirk grows and in a moment of complete ease, she shakes her head and sticks her tongue out at him. This time, he genuinely laughs. There is no sound to it, but the sentiment is there, and it's enough.

* * *

He grabs for his shower gel and wow, he realizes that this is his very first real shower in over two months and it's _heavenly_. After the initial sting of his healing injuries subsides, he spends an unreasonable amount of time under the spray of scalding hot water, letting it cleanse him, inside and out.

Later, when he finally adjusts the temperature to a normal level, he grabs blindly for his shampoo and is surprised to find it's at the front of the various products sitting in the caddy. When he looks closer, he notices that it's not just the shampoo; all of his products are close by, just within reach, Kate's own pushed into the far corner of the rack.

_Oh, Kate._

He hurries then, wanting to get back as soon as possible, to his family, to his life; back to it all. He replaces the shampoo in the caddy when he remembers that there really isn't any hair to wash. Besides, despite the bandage being made out of some pretty cool, water resistant material, it shouldn't be soaked, so he lets the spray wash over his face instead, filling his mouth with water. It tastes so sweet and fresh, flowing in abundance and God, he will _never_ take anything for granted ever again.

Drying himself proves to hurt like a bitch, his abused ribs screaming in protest as he twists and tries to bend forward to dry off his feet, and he finally accepts that they will just have to dry on their own. Pulling on his boxers and sweatpants is just as excruciating, but God help him if he'll ask his daughter, mother or fiancé to pull on his own pants like he's some invalid.

The shirt, however, can stay off for now, the effort and pain of having to lift his arms not really worth it. He's experienced enough pain to last him a lifetime, so if he can help it, yeah, he'll definitely always decide to avoid it whenever possible.

He walks over to the misty mirror and wipes the condensation away to take a proper look at himself, and _wow_ is the only reaction he can muster. He knew it was bad, but this is the first time he's truly taken the time to examine himself in a mirror since his abduction, and the sight that meets his eye takes him by complete surprise, because staring back at him is an old, bald, emaciated guy with dull eyes and 3 days worth of stubble peppering his hollowed-out cheeks.

The skin of his face is ashen white, his torso sinewy and marred by cuts and burns, unattractively flabby in the areas where he lost his extra pounds. And where there isn't unnatural paleness, there are bruises, lots of them, in every color and shape and size painting the expanse of his skin. Under any other circumstances, he might have found them fascinating, if only he didn't remember exactly how he got each and every single one of them. He traces his fingers over a long, lean one just below his ribcage – that was the steel rod – and then a round one right in the middle of his solar plexus – Tyson's left fist – until his fingers migrate to caress the strangulation marks covering his throat.

_Fuck._

He yanks the mirrored cabinet open, mindlessly rummaging through its contents, anything to distract himself from the mental images flashing through his mind. He looks for his toothbrush and yes, there it is, sitting in the cup on the shelf together with Kate's – a duo, a pair – as if he'd left it there just that very morning, as if it's just waiting there for him as he busies himself for bed and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ he is _not_ going to cry over a God damned toothbrush!

But it's not about the toothbrush, of course; he simply can't open that particular Pandora's box just yet. And anyway, Tyson hasn't succeeded in shaking the faith he has in his family. He might have doubted his own sanity at times, but never once did Castle believe that his family would stop looking for him, never did he believe Kate would give up and move on, not a single time. Not even when Nieman was working him over with those hellish drugs. He never, ever, doubted Kate's commitment, not for a second; that fact being single achievement he can really pride himself in.

He grabs the toothbrush violently, the cup rattling on the shelf and almost toppling over as he squeezes a fair amount of toothpaste onto the brush. He shoves it into his mouth, brushing and scrubbing, letting the minty scent spread through his tongue and again, it's such a surprisingly pleasant feeling. Will it be like this all the time for him now? Re-discovering the simplest things and feeling ecstatic about them every time, feeling blessed to finally be able to relieve himself on a real toilet?

_Well fuck it. Fuck it and fuck Jerry Tyson above all else. Fuck that sadistically creepy little shit and his screwed up mind games. _He will _not_ let that sick bastard win_._

But the toothpaste is already bitter in his mouth, turning sour on his tongue, so he spits it out, rinsing his mouth while deliberately _not_ looking into the mirror at his own reflection, because he's won.

That son of a bitch has won.

* * *

The pizza is the best he's ever had. Seriously, he's never eaten anything so _good_. He stuffs his face with it because he can't remember the last time he ate something so delicious and whoa, he's already three pieces in and could probably go for another. But then he remembers Kate's warning from the hospital, knows how taxing the pizza must be on his poor stomach, heavy and greasy as it is, and maybe he shouldn't have eaten that third piece after all, but he can't say he's particularly sorry either.

He sinks his back into the cushions of the couch, completely blissful and content because he's _home_. He's clean and warm and _safe_, his stomach full with the most delicious pizza ever, surrounded by the most important people in his life.

He closes his eyes for a moment while he listens to their quiet voices as they chat a little, keeping it down on his behalf, no doubt. He wants to tell them that they don't need to be quiet, not on his account, not when he wants nothing more than to have it loud and cheery. But in order to do that, he would need his tablet and that currently lays some ten inches away to his right and his body already has grown so warm and heavy.

Their conversation grows even more quiet, a jumble of conspiratorial murmurs and that distinctive giggle of his daughter's, the little traitor.

The air stirs and a cozy duvet falls over his body. He wants to protest, but he's got no voice and no real strength – or will for that matter – so he simply lets his body sink even deeper into the cushions.

Warm, soft lips brush his forehead and linger, and it's so nice, that touch. If only he could do something about it. "Sleep," comes Kate's lulling murmur hitting his skin, and her voice is the last thing he hears, so gentle and full of love, before he's finally pulled under.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, so in a couple of days, it will be THE time of the year and I hope you'll all enjoy the start of the new season, I can't wait. And although the canon will divert from this story from that point on, I hope you'll still like to read how this one will go one. See on "on the other side". Thank you Meg, for the awesome edits you made on this chapter._


	11. Chapter 11

_**Enjoy the Silence**_

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_A/N: Thank you for waiting this long for an update. Its not about abandoning this story, its about life happening and too little time in a day. I hope you will understand. Meg, best beta job (does that equal worst chapter to edit) so far!  
_

* * *

Chapter 11

He's warm. Huh. That's new. Warm and surprisingly…comfortable. Cozy. Must be another dream, but he won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

He doesn't dare to move, afraid that the dream will dissolve and he will again be left with the chill of the concrete slowly seeping into his bones, the sparse hay scattered under him scratching the dry and cracked skin of his ass. So little of his dignity remains, if any, but he stopped caring about that a long time ago.

But damn, his arm is killing him, falling numb. He needs to move, he thinks, even as he tries to resist the discomfort that only grows more intense by the moment, morphing into prickling pain now and fuck, _fuck_…he has no other choice but to move so he does, slowly, inch by inch. He's just so desperate to cling to the tentative grasp of his dream; to stay here, under the surface, a little while longer.

And then his arm is free and he's ready to face the cold, lonely darkness once more, but the feeling never comes. He's still warm and comfortable, melting further into his position even as blood pours back into his numb limb.

Okay, so it must be the drugs again. Just as well. Whatever keeps him in this reality is probably worth the way he'll feel later. But something is tugging at his consciousness, relentless and obnoxious, despite his best efforts to stay in this wonderful world of some strange limbo, this warm, mindless oblivion.

The obtrusive thing won't leave him alone; there it is again, crawling up his arms and over his head, brushing his ear, and he wonders for a moment whether this is some new kind of torture. Maybe Tyson got himself a pet tarantula, or a python, or some other disgusting creepy-crawly to keep his guest some company. But then…then he recognizes the touch, and it's not a couple pairs of hairy spidery legs, but the feel of hands; of warm, gentle fingers that are brushing the side of his face, his ear, so softly, so carefully.

Okay, so new strategy. If he just lies still like this, lets this happen, allowing that bitch to touch him in such an intimate way, then maybe he can pretend that those hands belong to another. Just a moment longer, please. Just one more moment in this drug-induced state of bliss where he can pretend he's somewhere else, with someone else.

A waft of perfume hits his nose, just the tiniest hint, and _fuck_, he could swear it's Kate, because it smells like the scent she typically wears. He could cry because his exhausted mind must be deceiving him again, to the point that he could swear- but no. No, it's Kelly _fucking_ Nieman and her medicinal cocktails that are playing tricks on him. He worries that he might not survive the crushing disappointment when he opens his eyes only to be greeted by the icy green of that redheaded bitch's calculating eyes, the reality of his situation hitting him once more with the force of a ton of bricks.

The warm hand moves from the shell of his ear to cup his jaw, and the air – _oh, _that sweet perfume – shifts and God, that touch, so soft, combined with that wonderful scent. If he didn't know better, he could swear, he could almost swear that it's—

"_Castle._"

His eyes snap open because he didn't imagine that, he _didn't_ imagine her voice, and indeed, there she is, her soft hazel eyes full of warmth; nothing like the cold, calculating darkness lurking in Nieman's that he was forced to grow accustomed to over the past couple of months. Castle can't believe his luck, because yes, God _yes_, he just might be home. This might actually be his reality now, instead of the cruel, heart-crushing joke he's been forced to live over and over again. It might finally be over.

He stares at her, at _Kate_, and opens his mouth fruitlessly, only to close it again a moment later.

"Hey," she whispers soothingly, the stark features of her face bathed in the soft light of the lamp as she waits him out, stroking her thumb over his cheek in calming circles.

His hand shoots up then, tangling in her hair as he touches her, as he makes sure—

She smiles at him brightly, her face stretching into that bright, joyous expression she wears for him alone, and he acts on pure instinct and relief as he pulls her down to him, instantly crashing their lips together in a desperate, sloppy kiss.

There's no weight to her, only the soft pressure of her warm lips and just a little bit of tongue, the gentle grip of her fingers playing at the nape of his neck. That's when he realizes she's bracing herself above him, her arms pushing against the cushions of the sinfully comfortable couch. Oh wait. This is _his_ couch.

He ends the kiss then, slowly blinking and peeking around her. He takes in his loft, the dim, familiar glow of the fireplace, the quiet serenity that always has the power to calm him.

Oh, and there's his daughter, just coming down the stairs, smirking at the two of them knowingly as they lay still entangled in each others' embrace. Alexis has one eyebrow raised but there's genuine laughter dancing in her eyes, and oh, he's still got one hand in Kate's hair and the other under the hem of her shirt. Wait, when did _that_ happen? He's surprised at the sudden warmth in his cheeks; of the two of them, he's never been the shy one, and he releases her then.

Kate disentangles from him with a little cute cough, throws him a secretive smile while silent mirth shines in her eyes, before she sits back onto her haunches at the other end of the couch.

"You okay there, Castle?" she teases and it's not fair, it's _so_ not fair when she speaks to him in such a silken, throaty bedroom voice and he's not in a position to do anything about it. He's slightly dazed, still stuck in the cobwebs of sleep and the taste and smell of Kate, in a land between what he expected upon waking up and the stark, wonderful contrasts of the actual reality.

So it wasn't a dream after all. He just took a nap. A deep, _deep_ nap. At home. Hmm…felt nice. He hasn't really slept in months. Not like that.

"Hey, you okay?" asks Kate again, this time more seriously, thinly-veiled concern coloring her voice as she touches his forearm carefully, and Rick realizes he must have zoned out for a little while there.

He gives her a small, tight-lipped smile and a nod, pushing himself up to a sitting position, momentarily forgetting his tender ribs and silently wincing as his torso instantly burns with vicious pain. It brings the crushing reality back to him, and it's a double-edged sword. It's so wonderful, the fact that this isn't a dream, that he's finally home, but it's also terrifying, the fact that Tyson and his sick torture wasn't a dream either, that he still has to face the consequences when so much of him remains broken.

He squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, tries to find his equilibrium; a compromise between his memories, his hopes, and the crushing reality of what truly is.

Reality is the last thing he wants to dwell on though, so he forces himself to concentrate on something, _anything_ else as he looks around sleepily, his eyes falling on the blue-lit TV screen. Oh, right. Whatever they'd been watching must have ended a long time ago. He shakes his head like a dog trying to get rid of an obnoxious fly, focusing his eyes on his companions instead. Tapping his bare wrist, he raises his eyebrows at the two of them in silent question.

"Just after seven," says Beckett quietly, and hell, he was must have been out for quite some time. He can't remember the last time when he slept so long in a single stretch.

"You need anything, dad?" asks Alexis. "Something to eat, or a drink?"

He shakes his head but then reconsiders, lifting his hand absentmindedly and pretending to be drinking from an imaginary glass before abruptly stopping upon realizing how ridiculous he must look. He's turned into a fucking mime.

But Alexis doesn't even bat an eye, just nods and disappears into the kitchen for a moment, quickly returning with a bottle of water. He takes a few gulps, enjoying the slide of the cool liquid down his throat, contemplating how nice it feels to have cold, clean water on demand, just because he feels like it.

"Wanna go to bed?" comes another question, this time from Kate. He wants to say no, because it's his first day home and he's already slept through the majority of it, and surely they could spend the time in some better way than sleeping. But he looks first at his daughter and then to Beckett, noticing the dark circles under their eyes and he instantly caves, nodding his assent.

Kate offers him a hand, helping him to stand when a shrill, unfamiliar sound rings out somewhere close by; it makes him startle so badly that he falls right back into the couch. Kate shoots him an alarmed look even as she grabs for the device, pushing the answer button as he shuts his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, willing the suddenly heavy thump of his heart to settle down. _Jesus, Rick. It's just a fucking phone. Get your shit together._ It just...it just startled him, that's all.

"Beckett," barks Kate, all of the softness gone from her features, looking fierce and determined. "Hey Espo, what's up?" Her voice is tight and Castle's eyes focus on her again, his heart suddenly in his throat.

The testimony. It's gotta be about his testimony.

Her eyes are locked with his as she listens quietly, but he can't read anything from her expression beyond the burning intensity in her stormy eyes. He can't tell whether she's hearing good or bad news, and it unsettles him, throws him completely off his game.

She nods once, then twice, her shoulders slumping in relief at last and she's speaking then, thanking Espo, her eyes overflowing with relief and gratitude. Castle slumps against the couch, his own relief flooding his veins like a tranquilizer.

It must occur to Kate then, the fact that he can't hear anything that's being said on the other end of the line, because she quickly pulls the phone away from her ear and hits the speaker button. Esposito's deep voice fills the silence, surprisingly loud in the vast space of the living room.

"…no way he's getting out anytime soon. Not before the trial, that's for sure, and Keller has already dug his claws into it, working his ass off with the prosecutor as we speak. I gotta admit Beckett, the guy has balls."

A relieved sigh leaves Beckett's lips then. "Thank you _so_ much, Espo. Truly."

"Don't thank me. Thank your boy over there. It's his statement that did the trick."

It's then that Castle sees it. He might have completely missed it, if he weren't observing her quite so closely, the wince that Kate tries to hide upon hearing Esposito's words, the clenching in her jaw. And surely, he must be imagining the flash of hurt glistening in her eyes. But no, it's not imagination on his part, because she turns her side to him, letting the curtain of her silky hair hide her expression, an evasive maneuver he knows only too well.

"Okay Javi. I'll let him know." she replies after a beat, her voice an octave too high.

Oh, his testimony. Right.

He didn't allow her to be in the room when he talked to the boys; he just couldn't do that to her, to them. To himself too, if he's being honest. It was excruciating enough having to tell…well, _type_, in front of the boys. He can't imagine…it would be too much. Just-

But he sees it now. It's like a fresh wound, the things he's holding back, the things he's not saying. Secrets she believes he's keeping from her. Actually, secret is too mild a word for what this is: it's more like hidden atrocities, humiliation, and pain.

He's nowhere close to being able to tell her – to tell _anybody_ – the whole truth yet, but…but he knows he has to start somewhere. He already has. Just not with Kate. And it's killing her.

And maybe, Castle thinks as he contemplates her talking quietly on the phone, shielding her from reality is bringing her more distress and suffering than the truth would. Or at least, the portion of it that he's willing to share right now. She'll eventually find out, anyway. And deep down…deep down he hopes there will come a day when she knows the whole truth, a day where he will be in a state to share what was done to him. _Everything_ that was done to him.

That day is not today, but wouldn't it be better to let her know _something_? Won't it be easier, on the both of them, to let her have this piece of it? Give her something solid instead of condemning her to guess and speculate?

He remembers the Elena case, still fresh and vivid in his mind. How painful it was to hear her recount the things that were done to her in that faint, detached tone, but it still felt better to hear them from her cold, trembling lips than not knowing at all and being left to wonder.

So maybe, just maybe, this is the place to start. This might be his only opportunity for a while.

"No, Espo. I don't plan to," she says into the receiver. Oh, she must have taken the phone off the speaker while he was zoning out. "No really, thank you. You did well. Ryan, too. Don't forget to let him know." She gives a low chuckle at his answer, before replying, "You too. See you soon-"

She stops when Castle starts frantically waving his hands at her, successfully gaining her attention. "Espo, wait a sec," she says, coming closer towards him, one beautiful eyebrow arched in question.

He quickly looks around, but there's no smart device within reach, _damn it_, and he really needs to get a new phone, but this isn't the time. A hand lands on his shoulder, settling him and when he looks up, Kate is gazing at him, mouthing a nearly inaudible yet soothing, "Hey babe, what's up?" She's still holding the phone, but is in no hurry to end to call now, and something inside of him eases.

Another hand miraculously appears before him holding out a smartphone, and thank God, _thank God_ for his quick-witted daughter. He shoots Alexis a grateful look, snatching the device from her fingers and quickly starting to type.

_Tell Espo to e-mail me a copy of the testimony. My private account. He knows which one._

Kate reads as he types, her eyebrows rising with each word, before she looks at him, a mix of apprehension and confusion. He gives her a tiny, brave nod, waiting until she reads his request aloud for Esposito to hear. _Today. Right away,_ he continues before he can change his mind, because God, he wants to. Every moment, he's engaged in a struggle not to withdraw from this, but that would only succeed in confusing and worrying Kate and Alexis even further. _Tell him thanks_, he adds on an afterthought, trying not to listen to the undisguised discomfort in Kate's voice. She nods into the phone once, then again, even though Espo can't see her before ending the call.

"He says he's already on it," she murmurs aloud, but she evades his eyes, and his next breath catches in his throat. He waits, sees the questions she doesn't dare ask simmering under the surface of her tense frame, but she doesn't voice them aloud. And somehow, that feels even worse. She simply stands there, lonely and lost and so insecure, a sight that just doesn't connect with her, not with the perception he has of her – strong, calm, ferocious, unbreakable.

None of that can be seen now, her shoulders hunched and eyes shying away. She doesn't even ask why he asked Esposito for the document, she just looks defeated as she quietly mutters, "Let's go to bed, Castle." Tiredness suddenly drips from her every word and she pulls the lose sweater she is wearing tighter around her frame and…_Oh, Kate._

He stretches out his hand towards her, wordlessly beckoning her closer, grasping her hand tight in his when she nears. Her face is open and vulnerable as she observes him tentatively, like a frightened child, and he hates it, hates seeing her like this and knowing it's his own doing, this insecurity she's harboring around him.

He uses her hand to help himself up and uses the momentum to wrap himself around her, pulling her close. He presses a kiss against her forehead, feels her body melt against his. Thank God. At least the trust is still there; he can work with that.

He releases her for a moment to draw Alexis close and hug her, the gesture meant to be his silent way of saying goodnight. He waits for her to ascend the stairs before he turns his attention back to Kate. Running his hands down her arms, he intertwines their fingers and pulls slightly, taking one step back, then another, and another until he's leading the way to his office.

He rounds his desk, glad to find his laptop occupying its usual spot. He pulls one hand away to power it up and then sits down in his chair, the silence languidly flowing between them now. Kate stands there, attached by their intertwined fingers, hesitant and a little confused, but with unmistakable interest sparkling in her eyes. He pulls her down, guiding her to sit on his knees. She's reluctant, still too careful around him, and he's tired of it, tired of the way they're tiptoeing around each other.

She gingerly sits down at last, allowing almost none of her weight to rest upon him, so he grips her tightly by the hips and pulls her flush against his body. She gasps in surprise but doesn't resist, until her full weight rests upon his legs. Putting her arms around him then, she caresses his stubbled cheek, and damn, he needs to shave, but the bruise on his jaw is still too raw. Instead he looks at her, taking her in, up close and tender, watching the color in her eyes change from green to brown to something richer and entirely too captivating for him to resist.

The laptop is still booting up so he uses the moment to thoroughly kiss her, because he can't let any more time go to waste, not after the ordeal they've been through. The kiss is long and warm and deep and _yes_, it's everything he dreamed of for the past two months, and so much more.

The laptop finally comes alive and he pulls back, giving her an apologetic smile before maneuvering around her to get to the laptop. He opens his email account, hoping beyond hope that Espo's made good on his promise.

There are dozens upon dozens of new emails waiting there for him, but he only looks through the most recent ones, his heart doing a little back-flip when he spots the one from Esposito. It doesn't contain any message in the body, just a single PDF attachment. He doesn't open it right away, already knowing what it is without having to look closely, his written words still fresh in his mind, so he merely hits the print button.

Castle feels it, Kate going stiff in his arms, but otherwise she stays silent, just observing his actions. He reaches out when the printer is done, momentarily closing his eyes as his ribs protest the painful movement, but he grits his teeth and breathes through it, snatching the sheets of paper and aligning them into a nice stack. There aren't too many of them, maybe eight to ten pages, tops.

He grasps them in his hand, one last chance to pull back from this course of action, before resolutely offering them to Kate. _No more secrets_. She takes the pages from him carefully, a furrow between her brows, and yeah, he should probably explain. He opens a new document on the laptop and starts typing.

_I'm sorry I didn't let you be there for my testimony. _

He stops, flicks his eyes briefly to hers but he finds that he can't hold the intensity of her gaze, so he turns back to his laptop.

_I couldn't tell them about these things in front of you, knowing what my words would do to you. But you deserve to know, you _need_ to know. I know I would. You want to know as much as I wanted to know about what happened with Vulcan Simmons, and I understand all too well how one's imagination can sometimes be crueler than the truth._

He stops for a brief moment before resuming his writing. She still hasn't uttered a word, merely looks at the screen, awaiting his next words as impatiently as her next breath. He feels more than a little inadequate, but it will have to do.

_It's just the testimony…it's not the whole story. Not even close. There are things I can't yet talk about. To anybody. But I will…I want, wish, _hope_ to get better. And if…no, WHEN, I get there, then I will tell you, Kate. I WILL tell you everything. But until then, this is the only thing I can give you, and I am sorry._

She shakes her head then, eyes sparkling with unshed tears as she presses close to him, pulling him into her, the papers rustling between their bodies as she hugs him, fierce and tight.

"Don't," she whispers right before she presses a kiss to the shell of his ear. "Don't apologize," her mouth brushing against his scratchy cheek this time. "Please, never _ever _apologize. Not for _that_," her breath hitching as she kisses his lips. "I just…yes, I want to know," she murmurs, her voice soft and warm. "But only because I want to help. I just want to help. Any way I can."

He wants to tell her that she already is, that she has no idea what her mere presence in his life has already done, but he can't utter a single word and _fuck_, he just can't do it, no matter how much he wants to. So he does the next best thing, pulling her close, burying his nose into the soft skin just behind her ear, into the sweet, familiar smell of her hair, of home.

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_A/N: Looking forward to read your thoughts._


	12. Chapter 12

_**Enjoy the Silence**_

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_A/N: Meg is mine! Don't steal her away from me...or I am screwed...Thank you, hun. Srsly.  
_

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Chapter 12

They go to bed together. He doesn't know what he expected, or why it seems to matter so much, but they go to bed together.

Maybe he was afraid she would dismiss him; tell him to go ahead and get in bed while she "wrapped things up in the kitchen," when in fact, she planned to withdraw to a corner and read his testimony on her own.

But instead they go to bed together, the printed pages shoved into a drawer and left unread, and she presses herself to him, their bodies so close in the vastness of their bed. She's wearing those cute little shorts and that oversized pink shirt that keeps falling off one of her shoulders, each time exposing a of stretch of soft, creamy skin that calls to him. She hovers above him for the briefest of moments and then presses a sweet, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. It's nothing like the heated ones they shared on the couch earlier, but this kiss is just as intense and intimate, if not more so.

He's too tired – they both are – to do anything more about it right now, but even so, just being here with her, the two of them in their bed together? It creates a sense of closure within him, a definitive acknowledgment of the fact that it's over, that this isn't merely a drug-induced chimera produced by Kelly Nieman shoving another needle into his arm, but that he is _truly_ and _permanently_ home.

He suddenly turns for the side table, grabbing the tablet lying there to type up the question that burns on his tongue but he's unable to put into words. A question that's been on his mind for the past couple of days, possibly since he awoke in the hospital.

_How did you find me?_

He doesn't know what he expected, but he definitely didn't expect the reaction he gets. Kate jerks in surprise, visibly tensing upon reading his words, before disentangling from him completely. She pulls away and puts some space between them in the bed, and his heart drops in his chest at the tortured look in her eyes. But he can't take his words back any more than he can make her un-see them, and he's not sure he would want to anyway, his interest having been piqued. He just…he needs to know. He wants to know, as much as she does, about what happened. It's suddenly essential to him that he understands how he got from _there_ to _here._

She pushes her body back into a sitting position, moving up until her back rests against the headboard. He wants to follow suit and mirror her position, but she stops him with a steady hand on his shoulder.

"No, just…stay there," she murmurs, so he lays back onto his side, his face turned towards her, his warm breath fanning across the bare skin of her thighs.

So close and yet so far away.

She runs her fingers through his closely cropped hair, the sensation making his scalp tingle, while she takes a deep breath. It might look like she's stalling, but Castle knows her well enough to know that she's merely searching for the right words to express herself. But she's deliberately not looking at him, her eyes fixed upon her other hand that now rests on top of her leg, clenched into a fist, and if that's not a bad sign, he doesn't know what is. He waits her out though, resisting the urge to reach out and sneak a hand over her thighs to loosen the tight tangle of her fingers with his own.

"Actually, it was Alexis," she lets out in one long, heavy exhale. "It's your daughter you have to thank for finding you," she continues, still not looking at him, her eyes blindly staring into the distance.

"We searched for you – me and Gates and the boys. Eventually the FBI got involved, too. But we all came up empty-handed. We didn't know who took you or where you might be, and there was just no evidence, no clues, nothing. I –" Her voice hitches and she stops, takes another deep breath, the rosy tip of her tongue sneaking out to wet her lips before she continues.

"I didn't really believe it could be Tyson," she says, the words coming out like a heavy confession. "I mean… not that it wasn't a possibility, but the range of suspects…there were just so many. There – there were too many variables. We had put so many people in prison over the years who could have had a vendetta. And then I thought it might be connected to something else, like your father, perhaps. Or Bracken, or Simmons. I don't know."

He can hear it all; the bitterness in her tone, the burden of regret and self-loathing. "For weeks, I'd been looking into every possible angle, called in all the favors I had in New York as well as DC, but...there was just nothing. Only dead-ends wherever I looked. It just didn't add up. There were no ransom claims, no taunting clues, only silence."

She's twisting her hands together as she speaks, contorting her slim fingers into uncomfortable angles that surely must be painful, and she still won't look at him.

"I – we talked it over, so many times. The boys, Gates, your mother, even Alexis. She seemed particularly convinced it was Tyson, something about the personal angle of the abduction, using our wedding to take you. I thought she was grasping at straws; we all were by that time. I thought she was fixating too much on one possible suspect, while I tried to consider the entire spectrum. There were just too many variables," she repeats again in a feeble voice, as if still trying to make sense of it all, to rationalize it to herself, her eyes far away as she tries to distance herself from her words.

"And I mean even if she was right, even if Tyson was indeed behind it all," she says in a desperate, apologetic-sounding rush, her voice rising an octave, "how were we supposed to find you? The man was a ghost! He was practically non-existent. He took all of our evidence and there were no clues left to point us in his direction. No creepy, cryptic messages, no sick mind-games with bloody breadcrumbs lying around for us to follow, like how he played with us in the past. Just…silence."

He wishes she would stop for a moment to think about her own words, to believe and internalize her own reasoning, because _she's right_: there was no way to trace the man. Tyson had seen to that, had a good laugh about it from afar and there was just nothing she could have done in her position. He wants to tell her that – and so much more – but even as he makes a move to grab for the iPad again, she's continuing and there's a sudden edge to her tone that has him halt his movements altogether.

"But Alexis was adamant about it, told me we should at least try, there was no harm in that. So she took some money out of her trust fund, called Gina and Paula for help to get her plan into motion. The only thing she asked of me was to provide a photo of Tyson and Nieman. The boxes of evidence were gone, of course, but there were some photos online, and I even found a few in your study drawer."

She falls silent then, and finally looks at him following that revelation. "I never knew you kept a folder on him – on _them_." He knows she's not accusing him of anything untoward, but he still looks away. It wasn't a secret, not exactly, but he didn't broadcast it either, the way he pulled out the file he had compiled on them every now and then, spending hours staring at their photos with nothing but a glass of scotch for company. On those nights when she worked late, he would pour over the information he had compiled, reminding himself that while those people were still out there, he and Kate and their loved ones could never really be safe.

Turns out he was right. How fucking ironic.

She clears her throat, breaking him from his reverie. "Anyway. Alexis took the photos and she created a media campaign of sorts. She gave a couple of high-profile interviews, and engaged a couple of different outlets to run your story again, to freshen it up. But then she stepped it up, went even further, got their photos distributed far and wide, gave the case high visibility. She even offered a reward for any information about their possible sighting. She was…"

She trails off as a soft, slightly melancholic, but still-proud smile plays on her lips, her eyes distant as she unearths the memories. "You would have been so proud of her, Rick. She wasn't going to stop at _anything _until she found you. She took her campaign to a national level. Kept your story circulating even while I tried to tell her that this wasn't an effective way to go about it, that she couldn't just launch a personal manhunt across the country for a couple of people that didn't want to be found. That it could have legal ramifications for her, but she wouldn't have any of it. She told me she wasn't in a position of authority, like me, but was merely a private citizen with enough money and lawyers on hand that she could make herself practically untouchable, and that she'd like to see anybody try to stop her."

Beckett's smile falters then. "She reminded me so much of you." Any light previously sparkling in her eyes about his daughter's brilliance dims, going out just like that, and his heart stutters at the sight. "I just didn't want her to get her hopes up, not if…not if nothing more but a bunch of pranksters and crackpots came out of it, calling in pursuit of the promised reward. As it was, all of us were skating on a very thin ice emotionally, supporting each other as best we could, encouraging each other not to lose hope. I was afraid this could be the last straw for her, you know," she says quietly and there's the tiniest sniffle, one of her hands shooting up to quickly wipe away the single tear sliding down her cheek.

_Oh, Kate._

He reaches out then, takes her tangled hands into his own. He _is_ proud, his chest bursting with it, but not only of his amazing daughter, but of his fiancée too. How she looked out for his kid, her instinctive protectiveness even now glistening in her eyes. They were amazing, all of them, in their faith, in their quest. For managing to not only keep going, but to support each other throughout the hardest, most trying parts of their ordeal, and he wishes like never before to tell her how amazing she truly is, but the words never come.

He squeezes her hands instead, momentarily surprised by how cold and stiff her fingers are, because despite the temperature in the loft being set slightly higher than usual – for his benefit, no doubt – her skin is icy. She still won't make eye contact with him, her slim digits lying limp and still in his large hands as she continues her story.

"The ad Alexis put together was printed daily, all over the country. There was some local news coverage, too. Most stations did it for next to nothing, since news on your disappearance always seemed to increase their shares, and they were probably hoping for some exclusive story should something come of it." She grimaces at that, but continues. "The new coverage went on for about a week, but nothing popped, only the usual reward- or attention-seeking creeps with false, useless leads," she says shrugging, one of her hands escaping his grip to pull at an invisible thread in the covers. She doesn't need to say it, but looking at her now, the intensity in her gaze, he's certain that she still ran down every single one of those leads, plausible or not, with unstoppable vigor.

"The media frenzy started to die out again after about a week. With no news, they grew tired and moved onto different topics. But Alexis didn't give up, she pushed those ads through still, plastered Tyson's and Nieman's face on every piece of newspaper she could manage. I have no idea how much money it must have cost her, and the reward itself – a hundred thousand dollars for verifiable proof – was mind-boggling in itself," Kate says, shaking her head in awed disbelief, and Castle makes a mental note to himself to speak with his mother at some point, about all the money his smart, amazing baby girl spent in order to find him. He'll pay it all back to her, every single penny.

"Not that it wasn't worth every last dime, and more," she adds hastily, but her omission didn't even occur to him. She clears her throat then, continues her story. "For the first week as well as the week that followed the big media push, there was nothing. Nothing solid, anyway. But then, a couple of days ago, the local police in Augusta, Maine, got an anonymous phone call that tipped them off."

_Anonymous? _He must look puzzled, because she absentmindedly nods her head in agreement before explaining.

"Whoever they were, they probably knew – or suspected – who they'd be messing with, so they called in anonymously, in case the arrest went south. Nothing like disclosing your identity while tipping off a man like Tyson. Maybe they'll come forward to collect the reward once they consider it safe enough to do so." she says, giving him a tired smile, accompanied by a defeated shrug of her shoulders, the mixture of her contradictory body language setting him on edge.

Whomever the tip ended up coming from, he might pay them double. He certainly has the money and it would be well spent, even if it had only spared him from spending a single day more in that psychopath's hands, so there's no question about whether he'll pay up or not. He's still amazed by the lengths Alexis was willing to go, that they were _all_ willing to go, for his safe return: his daughter and mother, Kate and the boys, hell, even Captain Gates, from what he's heard. Not that he ever doubted it, although there were moments, still are, in fact- But no. Enough.

It takes him a moment to finally focus on his suddenly silent companion and the way she won't meet his eyes again as she violently chews on her bottom lip, her teeth ruthlessly mauling the tender flesh, her fingers once again in that twisted, painful heap. He draws closer, propped on one elbow now so he can look up directly into her face and that's when he notices it, the too-bright green of her eyes, shiny with glistening tears, and Castle realizes she's only barely holding it together, trying but failing to hold it all back.

He shoots upright in the bed as if electrified, shifting closer even though his ribs are killing him, but he doesn't stop until he's drawn close, sitting right at her side, their shoulders touching. He feels a bit lost, unsure whether he should touch her right now or how to offer comfort in the face of her distress. He can't raise his arm to embrace her properly, not without agonizing pain lancing through his bruised ribs, so he goes for the next best thing. He sneaks his hand behind her, pushing his fingers between the backrest and Kate's back, wriggling his thick, clumsy digits until her stiff spine gives way. He pushes his arm through, splaying his hand over her hip and pulling her close in a surprising bout of strength, the momentum taking her by surprise and throwing her off-balance, right into his chest.

She doesn't fight him, and he's glad for it. Her tears fall freely now, her shoulders shaking with sobs, and she tries to hide her face in his shoulder, muffling her moans against the fabric of his shirt.

"I am so, _so_ sorry, Castle."

His stomach drops like a stone.

"I am so sorry I didn't think of it myself, it should have been _me_, not your adolescent daughter..."

The sickening sense in his stomach merely increases, his gut clenching even as he pulls her closer, firmly shaking his head against the top of hers and pressing an awkward, sloppy kiss to her forehead. The gesture doesn't even make a dent in her painful devastation, and it makes him feel so angry, so utterly uselessness. He opens his mouth, tries to spit out the words of comfort that lie dormant in his throat, but no sound comes out. She's still crying, practically caving in on herself, her body curving into a tight protective ball even as she chokes out words of sorrow and apologies through her clenched teeth, her remorse and self-loathing pouring out for things that were as much out of her control as they were of his. She's swallowed by her grief, fully lost to it, her arms squeezing around his torso and her icy toes buried deep between the mattress and his thighs, her frame remaining a tight ball of misery nothing seems to penetrate.

So he closes his gaping mouth, bites his cheek until he tastes the metallic tang of blood, forcing all of his concentration into that single task, pushing the words through his vocal chords and out into the world.

But they never come.

The room stays silent but for the pitiful sounds of his whimpering fiancée and it shocks him, maybe for the very first time, the extent of it, of how damaged he really is. Because surely, words aren't everything; a person is not solely defined by the things that come out of their mouth, especially a smart, speak-without-thinking mouth like his. But how is it possible that he's unable to speak even for _this_? For _her_, the woman he adores, when she's obviously in so much pain and his words possibly hold the key to stop all of this, cut clean through the sickening spiral of her misplaced self-blame.

But he can't. Honest to God, he tries with all his might, tries to force every conscious thought that he manages to form and that is not distracted by the sounds of her agony past his lips, but not a single sound makes it out. He cries with anger then, screams so loud his head could explode with the intensity of it, the noise echoing off of the walls of his skull, but the room stays quiet, his screams trapped in the depths of his brain.

And she is still crying.

And now he is, too. Because up until now, he never even realized what this might mean, not only for him, but for both of them, his daughter and mother, their family and friends.

She's talking again, Castle realizes, hiccupping apologies and it brings him back to the present, to the task at hand. Of course, he needs to deal with his own situation, to understand it, the way things are now, but he needs to tackle this first, because there is no way in hell he lets Kate take the blame for something Jerry Fucking Tyson did.

He is pressing her body to his again, holding her close even as she protests when he drags her legs over his own, cradling her in his lap like a little girl. The crippling pain in his torso almost feels welcoming, the pain feeling right and justified, for doing this to her, to his family, for his inability to make it go away.

One hand comes to her face, moist and damp and hot from her tears, his fingers tangling in her disheveled hair. He strokes the soaked, sticky strands away from her face, the tips of his fingers caressing the shell of her ear. He repeats the gesture, over and over and over again, because that's all he's got left, just his fumbling hands and awkward embrace.

But he puts everything he has into that single gesture, wills his thrashing heart to calm down and his breathing to even out, letting the comfort of his firm embrace seep through their clothes and directly into her skin. Because God, she can't do this, not to him and not to herself. They can't allow themselves to be crushed under the weight of this, and at some point, he's going to have to accept that he's a victim_._ There's no way to deny it anymore; that's what he is, what he's become, been reduced to, and he has to face it at some point.

Tyson's turned him into a victim. And he hates it even more than the thought of what was done to him, the label, this brand. But there's nothing he can do to change that now, so he turns his concentration to Kate instead, the only real thing he can work on right now.

She gradually grows quiet, probably more from exhaustion than having achieved any peace of mind, but Castle is grateful nonetheless. He can only imagine how tired she must be.

They stay like that for long minutes, her limp body cradled against his. She hasn't moved away from him, but she doesn't engage either, merely sitting there, her eyes red and swollen and still so very full, blankly staring into space.

Jerry Tyson has turned him into a victim, alright, but hell will have to freeze over first before he lets the bastard turn Beckett into one too.

He untangles their limbs just enough to allow him to reach out for the tablet again, and he begins to type furiously, his hands flying over the screen with such speed, the app has a hard time keeping up with him. He writes the first thing that comes to mind, and then the next, and the next, pouring out everything that's trapped inside, unable to make it past the impenetrable gates of his lips.

_I don't care. It doesn't even matter, Kate. You got me. In the end you got me and you did all you could and I am back, and who or when or how doesn't matter anymore. Only you and I matter, and Alexis and my mother and your dad and the boys and Lanie and that's all there is for me. Don't you DARE blame yourself for this, for any part of it, if for no other reason than that's exactly what that sick bastard would want and I am done, DONE doing his bidding, and so are you. We're moving on, with a clean slate. Don't let this hang between us, PLEASE. You are more than that, WE are more than that._

His eyes blur momentarily as he realizes the truth behind his words, because if anything is worse than the last nine weeks, it's the knowledge of how this affects his family, the three people more important to him than his own physical and mental integrity.

He pushes the screen towards her, forcing it into her line of sight, willing her _to see_. He lets her read it, momentarily arrested by the droplets of salty liquid clinging to her long, dark lashes, the flushed skin of her damp cheeks. But the moment he sees she's finished reading, he snatches back the device, denying her the chance to react, to protest, to refute him as he vigorously resumes typing, angling the screen so she can read along as he types.

_Every day for the last nine weeks, before I closed my eyes, I thought about you. Not about the horrors of that day, not about all the places I was hurting inside and out, not even about the even worse things the next day would inevitably bring. No. I took a single moment, using all the strength and resistance I had left in me to detach myself from that place, those injuries, the hunger, fatigue, coldness or pain, and I thought of you. Of the mischief behind your smile, the light in your eyes, the sass in your walk. Of how far we've come and how far I still want to go with you, of how much more I love you with each passing day. That single moment, that was the only thing I had to look forward to, day after day after fucking day, and that single hope, that belief that I would eventually return to you is what got me through it, one day at a time._

She takes a shuddering breath, then another, and it's like she can suddenly breathe again, reading his words. Maybe she can, and that's good, but he realizes that's not all of it, that there's more he needs to say.

_I survived on that thought alone and I would have continued to survive as long as it took for you to find me, Kate. That hope would have sustained me until the day came when you finally found me. And no one, not even Jerry Tyson or his unhinged girlfriend could ever take that away from me. They couldn't take YOU away from me._

Her eyes finally meet his then, all of it breaking free behind the green and gold speckles, everything she's not saying, laid bare for him to see, the uneasiness but also acceptance and awe swimming behind the unshed tears.

He tosses the tablet away then, needing his hands free as he holds her close once again, his fiancée, his touchstone, his lifeline.

* * *

_A/N: I would love to hear your thoughts, good or bad. :)_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Enjoy the Silence**_

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_A/N:__ Meg, despite your trouble with this chapter, I still love the way you helped me shape it. Thank you. Also, thank you all who reviewed the last chapter, I read and cherish each and every single review._  


* * *

_Chapter 13_

Everything looked so good at first. So damn good.

He might not have been talking, and it still bothered her that she didn't know the reason as to why or how that happened, and yet in the beginning, it all looked so damn good.

She read his testimony first thing the next day after he'd given it to her, through blurred eyes and fisted hands, but she did. Numerous times, in fact. But the pieces of paper, no matter how often she read them, wouldn't reveal more. They wouldn't tell her more than the obvious, which, surprisingly, wasn't nearly as much as she had expected or hoped for.

It did tie Jerry Tyson and Kelly Nieman to Castle's abduction. It did expose a range of atrocities, some of the most disgusting ways to abuse and torture a human being. All of what the doctors suspected was in there, in his own words, clinical and almost impersonal: the beatings, the strangulations, electrocution and drugs. Even the use of the drill on his skull, although he couldn't remember much of the actual act. Thank God for small favors.

It was a gruesome account, yet that's all it was.

It was more than enough to put Tyson behind bars for good. They were told that Castle may need to be questioned again, that more detail about certain parts of his testimony may be needed later on in the course of working the case, or during the trial, but that it was more than enough for a start, and a solid foundation for a full conviction.

There was, however, no reason given for his mutism, no account of the psychological torture that had to have gone on for weeks, no basis for the ways in which their lives had been turned upside down by it. Somewhere at the beginning of the testimony – before the start of Castle's account – there was a mention as to why the testimony had been delivered in such a way, due to the victim's inability to speak. But it wasn't mentioned any further, and a direct connection between his mute state and the perpetrators' deeds was never made. Kate had no idea whether to be disheartened about that, or simply relieved.

The document would pass through dozens of government hands, but what they chose to put forth to the media, and subsequently to the public, was up to them. And Castle, no matter how much she had loved teasing him about his celebrity status in the past, was indeed a well-known public figure. She was getting phone calls from reporters who wanted to know _more_, who promised to give _the_ exclusive interview, with their approval on what was printed, if _only_ Castle would confide in them; just a short interview, anytime, anywhere. She changed her number after the first couple of calls, Alexis and Martha too, but they kept receiving them, until she threatened to take certain steps to end the harassment, legal or otherwise. The calls had been sparser since then, but they still came from time to time, making her irrationally angry and at the same time glad Castle had not yet acquired a new phone for himself.

More now than ever it was painfully obvious how much the public wanted to get scoop on the "miraculously rescued crime novelist," which only made Beckett more paranoid and protective of any information that went in and out of their home. If the testimony was somehow released, if those gruesome and deeply personal facts were leaked, along with the fact that he was mute, that the famously talkative author had indeed been robbed of his words, the conspiracy theorists and haters would have a field day, spinning and greasing their malicious, backbiting wheels. And when it somehow got back to Castle, which sooner or later, it inevitably would, it could have devastating effects not only on his public persona, but on him as a man as well. She didn't want it to come to that, so perhaps releasing some of the clinical details of his ordeal might not be such a bad thing after all, but that was to be handled later on.

Yet the absolute lack of any mention of Tyson and Nieman's interaction with him any other than the physical left her deeply unsettled, not to mention that it also left her empty-handed, with literally no information to work with or build on, her concern becoming deeper and darker by the day. God, it seemed like the only thing she did anymore was worry sick over him.

They'd had him home for a little over three weeks now, and all of the progress they had made, all the ground they seemed to gain in those early days was slowly crumbling away, becoming completely undone with each new day. Maybe they had been far too optimistic about his recovery, about the way he could bounce back to a relative normal. Maybe they'd expected way too much of him and his phenomenal coping mechanisms.

But truly, it had looked so promising in the beginning, before everything began to change a couple of days later, most obviously in his attitude towards them. He grew more and more withdrawn and solemn, even angry and childlike at times. He often refused to "talk to them" via his tablet, sometimes shoving or hitting things in an open fit of rage before he disappeared in his study or crawled into bed under the covers, pretending to ignore the world. He became furious sometimes for no apparent reason, his outbursts seemingly coming out of nowhere and they didn't even know whether his anger was directed at them or at himself, at the absence of his voice and having no way to express himself, or at the general situation altogether. It could be just one or a combination of all of them, but his grim, almost obstinate attitude sometimes felt like a punishment.

His mother and daughter tried to take it in a stride, deciding to give him time and space, but for Beckett, it felt like time was getting away from them, their chance to actually do something about it slipping away until it was too late.

She stayed home that first week, trying to find them a new normal, and things were going so well until it all started to go bad, his mood growing more sour by the day. So the second week, when the loft began to grow crowded and hummed with repressed energy that was just begging to be released in a disastrous manner, she tentatively suggested that she return to work. Truth be told, she didn't have much leave left anyway, but Beckett knew she could find a solution if she really needed to, knew the Captain would work hard to help her find a way to stay home longer. Hell, she could simply take unpaid leave if it came right down to it. But when she told him about her plan, admittedly in part to gauge his reaction, she hoped for some kind of response from him that her presence wasn't a nuisance, and her heart sank when he actually looked _relieved_ at the idea of her going back to work.

It stung like hell, the simple nod and the slightly disinterested shrug of his shoulders. There were no words he felt like sharing with her through the tablet either. Just that single nod and his evasive eyes, that's all she got. And she just - she couldn't figure him out.

She tried to hide the anger and the hurt, tried to tell herself that it wasn't personal, that it wasn't about her, or about them. That he wasn't trying to get rid of her, not like that anyway; he was merely trying get away from her constant, hovering presence. This wasn't _them_, not really, sitting at home and trying to pretend this was their life. Maybe having her get back to work was exactly that kind of normalcy he was craving. A normalcy where she would leave for the precinct alone, like when he had to stay behind to finish a writing deadline but instead would play video games, procrastinate, and send her inappropriate texts that made her flush and the boys laugh at her; where he would welcome her home with a kiss and a home-cooked meal, only to seduce her later on the couch by the fire with a glass of wine and a path of kisses down her neck.

So she went, with a tight, heavy heart, with his daughter's and mother's number on speed-dial, and a sick feeling in her stomach, but still, she went. She counted it a small victory on her part, for getting them back to their usual normal even if her guts twisted as she sat at work and hovered over new cases, hoping their absence from each other during the day would draw them once again closer in the evenings.

That was not the case. Instead, whenever she came home these days, he withdrew to his study and his laptop to type away, at what she had no idea. She tried to give him time and space, tried not to crowd him, but it unsettled her. He rarely made dinner for her anymore, texted her even less at work. He never went out beyond his medical check-ups, holed himself up in the loft like it was a fortress, and maybe for him, it was. So she brought a little outdoors to him instead, sometimes surprising him during the day just to bring him his favorite coffee order, or his favorite deli sandwich for lunch.

He never made her coffee anymore. He didn't speak about the testimony either, or his promise to try to get better, to tell her more. He just continued to withdraw into himself, growing more and more solitary.

Maybe the post-traumatic symptoms that Dr. Grant had told them about were finally hitting home, but all things considered, it looked bad. She consulted with Grant when she started back to work again and a couple of times afterwards, at her wit's end about how to approach him without the fear of being unreasonably scolded for it. She wasn't sure anymore whether to plow forward and continue showing interest, or to just leave him alone, give him the time and space to figure it all out, because nothing seemed to work and this was just not him. Not a man she knew, a man she could predict. A man she could help.

And it broke her heart, distracted her at work, made her let the boys compensate for the lack of enthusiasm and energy she usually put into her work – yet another thing to add to her already heavy conscience.

Grant was kind enough about her inquires; he told her to be patient, told her Castle would approach her when he found some kind of footing again, that she couldn't take it personally (like that was even possible). He did advise, however, for Castle to consider some chemical supplementation for the time being, to compensate for his trauma, and his body's withdrawal from the drugs his system had become accustomed to receiving during his ordeal. He avoided calling them anti-depressants, calling them "mood stabilizers" instead, but no matter their name, they both knew that they'd actually need Castle's consent and cooperation for that, neither of which they were getting at the moment.

He did go to his medical check-ups though, so at least there was that. The injury to his head was slowly growing over with new skin, the bruises on his body fading with time, his damaged ribs healing. But that was all there was, his only reason to leave the loft, and only when Alexis and his mother were hassling him, insistent enough to push him outside the doors did he take the shortest of walks with them, but never for too long or too far away.

So doing nothing, letting him deal with it alone when there was no way he would do the same if their roles were reversed, was not an option as far as she was concerned. Not to mention, it left their future in a state of limbo, his distant demeanor driving a wedge between them. Each day they were losing a larger part of who they were, drifting apart.

It was hard enough trying to explain to their friends and family why Castle wouldn't see them, but to see him push away his daughter, mother and herself…it was just too much. And honest to God, Kate didn't want all that much. She just needed that connection back, the one they so tenuously shared when he was returned to them three weeks ago. It didn't have to be like it was before, she only wanted the man who clung to her in his hospital bed, the man with that incredible, excited spark in his eye while she searched in the depths of her handbag for her tablet, that silent man who took her gently by the fingers, sat her on his lap and solemnly handed over his testimony. The man who tried everything in his power to console her through her fit of grief and guilt about his abduction even though he was hurting and broken himself.

She wanted back the man who never gave up.

Finally, Grant strongly suggested seeking the help of a psychologist, but she already knew that. She didn't need Grant to explain it yet again, considering they'd already been over this, but it was a hard thing to achieve considering the man in question always shut her out whenever the topic came up.

In all fairness to Castle, he was making some progress, even if it was solely on the physical front, but it was still something. The injuries were fading, his hair – still so short but not as brutally cropped as before – was growing out again, and hell, he even started to style it, or at least that's how it appeared to Kate on the occasion when she would catch him unawares in front of the bathroom mirror. He was even gaining some weight back, his cheeks filling out, his appetite improving, and Alexis delightedly reported his enthusiasm for all kinds of food that they would either cook or order in. The sinewy, wasted appearance of his muscles was slowly disappearing, his skin still pale but evening out, even though the dark circles under his eyes remained.

And maybe she was being unjust to him, because he _did_ communicate with them, all of them, it just wasn't consistent. He would sometimes come out of his shell and seek them out, a ray of the man, the father, the son he used to be peeking through the grey grimness of his mood. But he was still hiding in the shadows of safe topics, like school or theater, food or the annoying crossword in the morning papers. He still wouldn't speak about what happened to him and they all knew it was slowly eating him alive. It was just a matter of time before the other shoe would drop, a notion that felt utterly terrifying and unacceptable to Kate.

Beyond his medical appointments, he hadn't been out in weeks, not really, and appeared to have no interest in the outside world, whether that was the world that lay beyond the loft's door or the world that wanted to come and visit within the safe walls of his home. He'd even left it to Alexis and Kate to handle his public affairs, the two forced to put together a short public statement with Paula's help, asking the public for space and understanding and privacy in the wake of Mr. Castle's ordeal.

He often didn't follow her to the bed, rarely kissing or holding her, at least not like before. She found their roles reversed, leaving her to be the one to seek physical closeness with a man who suddenly felt reluctant to give it, the change all the more distressing because they were all so used to his usual shower of affection, small ministrations he used to dole out in abundance.

There were some intimate moments between the two of them. It would be unjust to say otherwise, although they felt more like fleeting moments of clarity rather than true progress on the road to recovery. On those rare occasions, he would simply look at her and let her see it all, allow her to get a glimpse into the vastness of his misery and isolation and regret, a desperate apology for being this way, like he felt he had no control over it. She had no words for him on those occasions, could only offer her embrace and he silently let her, sought it even, sinking against her, letting her shoulder bear the weight of it for a while, a long, heavy silent sigh clawing outside from somewhere deep within him. In those moments, it was almost enough.

But those moments were too few and far in between, and they weren't something they could build a true recovery on, no matter how precious they felt. They really needed to get him into therapy, there was simply no other way. It hurt to put a voice to it like that, but she knew in her heart that they simply weren't enough. Right now, he needed more than what they could provide.

They talked it through, Kate, Alexis, and Martha. He needed to open up and not allow the things Tyson did to him fester inside any further, turning whatever remained of Richard Castle into lonely bitterness and silent anger. And if she and his family couldn't be that sounding board for him, she knew she needed to find someone who could.

* * *

Friday seems like a good day, right from the start.

The workload is mild, no case on hand, so she manages to slip out of the precinct unusually early. To Beckett's pleasant surprise, she comes home to a thoughtful, yet not closed-off Castle, something she hasn't seen in days. He's in the kitchen at the stove, stirring something in a pan. He looks good, and there's even some light music playing in the background. That's new.

She can smell pasta, tomato sauce, basil and fresh garlic in the air, and a heady sense of familiarity washes over her, of how it used to be…before. She eagerly kicks off her shoes and shakes out of her coat before silently padding to the kitchen, slowly closing the space between them and using the opportunity to observe him, to test the waters.

He smiles at her when he spots her, sets the spatula aside and turns towards her with open arms, readily offering a hug that surprises her, but nevertheless one she immediately sinks into, enjoying the feeling more than she could ever put into words.

He smells good, fresh and domestic. The skin of his neck is warm, the short spikes of hair tickling her at the temple, but she doesn't dare to withdraw, nearly forgetting to breathe in his presence. Mmmmm. Definitely a good day.

She buries her face deeper into the crook of his neck and she has a hard time stopping herself from sticking out her tongue to taste the salty musk that lurks there. Instead she lets her arms tighten one more time around his frame before finally letting go.

"Hey, babe," she murmurs, smiling brightly. She's delighted to see he doesn't withdraw too far, remaining in the circle of her arms. He leans forward, gently bumping their foreheads together in greeting, the gesture making let out a low chuckle.

"You seem in a particularly good mood today. What's with the sudden change?"

It falls out of her mouth just like that, and she immediately wants to kick herself for being so stupid – _stupid, stupid, stupid –_ watching as the light in his eyes slowly dims.

"I'm sorry," she blurts, her hands firmly gripping his back to stop him from stepping away from her. "I didn't mean it like that."

Only, she did, and they both know it.

He raises his head and gives her a small, saddened smile before shaking his head at her dismissively, slowly letting her go. But he's not hiding for once, merely seeing to their meal again as he looks back at her and something inside her uncoils. He gestures towards the pots and pans simmering on the stove before giving her a raised eyebrow.

"Starving," she admits in answer to his silent question, a radiant smile stretching across her lips. He begins to plate their meal, and she doesn't even care what it is because hell, he's cooked for her, wants to have dinner with her, and already, that's more than enough.

She hops onto one of the barstools, just because it's closer to him than the table, eying him with curiosity and no small amount of intrigue. The shift in his demeanor…it's just so sudden, it makes her suspicious. She looks around then, taking in the unusual quietness of the loft.

"Where are Martha and Alexis?"

He throws her a look over his shoulder, his brow slightly furrowed, glancing around and searching the countertops, but there's no tablet lying nearby, not even his new shiny phone. He ends up grabbing the bottle of ketchup sitting nearby and squeezes out the word _SPA_ with it on the top of the counter, taking her completely by surprise. Without even realizing what he's done, he takes a paper towel and quickly wipes the ketchup away, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

She laughs out loud then, can't help the free and happy sound escaping her lips, and he gives her a matching look of surprise before his face morphs into a mightily pleased grin. She realizes it's been a long time since she's laughed like this, and the thought saddens her, a sharp stab to the heart, as it occurs to her that he might have missed it, too, seeing her like this.

He turns away from her to scoop up their plates and carry them to the table and she follows him, grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge for them. No wine, though. No one's been in the mood for alcohol lately, no one but his mother, who may have had a little too much to drink in the past few weeks, but that's another matter they just don't talk about.

They start eating in silence, but it's comfortable for once, companionable. It feels so nice to just be together, spending some time over something as mundane as dinner.

He surprises her even further when he takes her by the hand when they're done eating and guides her towards the couch to sit, and it only dawns on her then that he must have planned this. Her stomach churns with acid, the delicious meal suddenly sitting too heavy in her stomach. She looks at him in apprehension but he's already grabbed the tablet and is typing away. She's nearly afraid to look.

_I_ _talked with Mother today. Or rather, I found her smashed in her room around noon._ His hand wavers for a moment, hesitating, and her heart drops. She lets her eyes close shut for the briefest of moments, willing the sick feeling to go away. She didn't want him to find out about it, about how severe the problem had become. Certainly not like this, not when he already has so much on his plate as it is.

He continues then. _She told me some things. She probably didn't intend to be so blunt with me, but the alcohol loosened her tongue._

Kate's eyes slam shut again, her hand falling on Castle's forearm, fingers automatically stroking his skin soothingly. She can only imagine what that must have been like for him…well, no. Actually, she doesn't have to imagine it. She's dealt with a drunken parent, and that makes it even worse.

"I am _so_ sorry," she murmurs. "Martha's been…well, I don't want to make excuses for her, believe me, I don't, but she's been through a lot. We all have," she adds quickly. "But I'm sure she didn't mean it, whatever it is she said."

She's seen Martha like that a couple of times, knows how flippant the woman can become when alcohol wraps its fingers around her mind. It's not always a pleasant thing. Far from it, in fact.

He turns to the tablet again. _Oh_,_ she meant it alright. Believe me, she did. Maybe those words weren't the ones she would have chosen had she been sober, and maybe she wouldn't have said them quite that loudly, but it's been a long time coming. I guess I deserved it_. He winces and she immediately wants to tell him no, but something in his expression stops her. She decides to let it slide for now, concentrating instead on what he's trying to reveal to her in this moment.

"What did she say?" she asks quietly, her fingers still stroking his forearm and Kate suddenly realizes that this has taken a turn into very serious territory. Hell, this is the most serious discussion they've had since the night he gave her his testimony, and she's momentarily thrilled and worried sick about what it might mean, what the fallout will be.

_Not important_ he types, and she carefully keeps her expression blank as she consciously reminds herself that he's not stonewalling her again, that for once, it was he who sought out this conversation. _But it definitely put certain things into perspective for me._ He silently sighs, his eyes suddenly moist, before he resolutely types the words that must have been weighing on him for far too long.

_I don't want to live like this anymore, Kate._

She can practically hear his pleading in what he writes, and it breaks her heart, for him _and_ for her, because she doesn't know exactly what it means, what it is he's trying to say to her. Castle wipes at his eyes before continuing to type with renewed determination.

_I can see what it's doing to me, and inevitably to you, and to my mother, to Alexis. _Oh, okay… she can work with this. He's - he's not breaking up with her. So long as he's not breaking up with her.

_I want it to stop, I want it to change. I want to change ME, somehow, but I don't know how to stop it. How to change it. But I realize now that I can't go on like this, nor do I want to see my mother like that ever again. Not because of me, anyway, because I drove her to this._

Her stomach drops out at this words. "Oh no, Castle, no!" she murmurs, "Not because of you." She reaches for his face and draws him close. "It's not your fault," she whispers, their noses rubbing as she shakes her head at him. "It's not your fault, never your fault. But I agree. _We_ – not only you but all of us – need help." She gets the words out at last, ones that were such a long time coming. In the face of his honesty, what else could she do?

She sees it there, all in his eyes, laid bare for her to see, the sadness and desolation, the absolute lack of trust in himself, of any self-esteem. She's furious all of a sudden, making a silent vow that they will rebuild their lives together, stronger and better than ever, if it's the last thing she ever does.

He grabs for the tablet again, continues typing with shaky fingers. _I don't want to let him win. _Her heart plummets, dread filling her lungs. _But I don't even know where to start._

He breaks off then and stops typing because his hands are shaking so hard. Tears are threatening to fall and he screws his eyes shut, as if ashamed, trying to turn away from her but she'll have none of that. She draws him into a tight hug, silently guiding his face to seek refuge in the crook of her neck like the few other times he allowed himself to be so open and vulnerable with her.

"We'll find a way," she whispers fiercely. "Whatever it takes, Rick, I promise you, we will find a way."

* * *

_A/N: Reviews make me happy. So make me happy?_


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